


the battery-operated boy next door

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (only dirtier), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Love Confessions, Masturbation, Minor Robb/Theon, Mutual Pining, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Roommates, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sneaking Around, Social Media, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-28 06:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15042716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: What’s a few vibrators between friends?When Margaery’s well-intentioned gift to Sansa falls into Jon’s unwitting hands, the mutually pining pair’s friendship takes a turn for the awkward, romantic, and irreversibly hot-and-heavy.aka jon accidentally opens the vibrator margaery sent sansa, his head explodes, and sexy chaos ensues(chapter titles from “cake by the ocean,” by DNCE)





	1. girl, why those cold feet?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melissa_Alexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melissa_Alexander/gifts).



> a/n: so. this was my original manuscript that got rejected, which made me feel so incredibly low that idek what else to say about it anymore. and blah blah blah, i could have edited and submitted elsewhere, but long story short, i decided it wasn’t gonna cut it. so i’m tentatively working on a new project for my original, but i didn’t want to shove this under the bed. i’ve been a real bummer lately (not without cause but still) so after the appropriate editing, i wanted to give this to the jonsa fam as a thanks for putting up with me, and hopefully to share some smiles
> 
> note: this one actually IS finished, and i’ll be posting a chapter every couple of days or so (give me time to polish it up a bit!) until you have it all
> 
> ~for melissa, who has stood by me through every leg of this project — YOU KNOW WHY~

Sansa blames it on the spring.

That is, if anyone were to ask what prompted her to text her best friend — who’s always played her own love life fast and loose, and encourages to the point of nagging Sansa to do the same — she would say, vaguely, that there was _something in the air_ and leave it at that.

There’s something in Sansa’s blood/alcohol level, too, but she thinks that probably goes without saying.

She doesn’t need any such excuse to text her best friend after another drunken weekend excursion. But, through the fog supplied by one too many piña coladas, Sansa thinks that the _subject_ of the text is one she’ll sorely come to regret along with tomorrow’s hangover.

But the hangover and its accompanying mortification are hours away still. So Sansa digs her phone out from where it had fallen when she’d clumsily plugged it in, between her bed and the wall, and — squinting against the brightness of the screen — taps out a message.

 **SANSA** : I think I need to get some.

 **MARGAERY** :i wholeheartedly agree. that, or a good vibrator

 **SANSA** : Absolutely. Mine broke… what, two years ago now?

She does a quick calculation to make sure, but two years sounds about right. Which, as it transpires, Margaery considers to be a tragedy that simply will not stand.

 **MARGAERY** : excuse me i seem to have just suffered some sort of aneurysm

 **SANSA** : Oh, right, this is why I didn’t tell you about it sooner. Because you’re a certified drama ho.

 **MARGAERY** : whatever i just ordered you a new one

 **MARGAERY** : it took me like ten seconds, we really don’t appreciate the internet as much as we should

 **SANSA** : What?? You didn’t have to do that!

 **MARGAERY** : first of all, yes i did. second, it’s too late now anyway i already expedited the shipping

 **SANSA** : WHY

 **MARGAERY** : well SOMEONE’S got to care about your sexual gratification

 **MARGAERY** : someone besides one mr. jon snow, that is, because while i’m sure that pouty mouth would take you on the ride of your life, mother maiden and crone only know he’s too chicken-shit to offer

“ _Gods_ help me…” Sansa huffs, and hits the back of her head against the wall for good measure.

This is precisely what she didn’t need to be thinking about — or rather, whom. Jon is strictly off-limits, always has been, although trust Margaery to bring him up at every available opportunity, anyway. It had been an irritating habit of hers for the past near-decade, since they were sixteen and Sansa had confessed her secret, hopeless crush on the resident boy-next-door, who tragically happened to be her brother’s best friend.

 _Hopeless_ and _tragic_ because that’s exactly what it was: a silly, adolescent lust that could never come to anything because _bros before hos_ , as the saying goes, even when the _ho_ was a little sister; perhaps especially when she was a little sister.

But that hadn’t stopped Sansa from wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’ — nor, clearly, had it stopped her from listening to Dusty Springfield on repeat, all the while wondering dreamily what it would be like to do more than that.

Of course, she’d never done more. Instead, she’d let the feelings linger, simmer, and it’s been going on so long that she’s due to boil over any day now.

It’s been a long time coming, after all. Ever since that summer afternoon when Jon had pulled himself from the Stark family pool, glistening like some sort of herald of sexual awakening, Sansa had been a goner. Maybe she was just easy but she’d never been able to forget it; then again, who forgets the inspiration behind their first sexual fantasies?

Even if she’d wanted to, Margaery — who claimed from the start that Jon Snow was undoubtedly Sansa Stark’s _The One_ — wouldn’t let her. She had maddeningly (if appropriately) dubbed Sansa’s infatuation “The Thirst,” and had proceeded to never let it go.

Somehow, miraculously, he hadn’t come up in conversation tonight. Sansa should be counting her lucky stars for that, if nothing else, since he’d been sitting with them at the pub.

Sitting with them, right next to Sansa, with his leg pressed up against hers for three hours. Three long, tortuous hours that left the insides of Sansa’s thighs smarting from how vigorously she’d been rubbing them together. She could easily attribute his close proximity to their group of six at a three-person table, but his thigh had been hard and hot against her own regardless. The semantics hadn’t been enough to keep her panties from getting embarrassingly damp — because who gets wet from an innocent, purely coincidental touch, _honestly_?

Someone who’s been out a vibrator for two years, Sansa supposes, but still.

 **SANSA** : He’s not offering because he doesn’t want to. That’s it. End of.

 **MARGAERY** : oh my sweet summer child…

 **MARGAERY** : he DOES want to. he wants to EAT YOU ALIVE. that smoldering gaze nearly singed my new myrish slip dress earlier, all because i happened to walk in with you and ya boy’s gaze was ping-ponging all over the place, since evidently he couldn’t decide whether he should look at your face or your legs or your tits

 **MARGAERY** : btw i’m totally taking credit for jon’s primal reaction to you since you borrowed my dress and I TOLD YOU you’d look bangin’

 **SANSA** : The credit’s all yours, but Jon did -not- have a ‘primal reaction’ to me.

 **MARGAERY** : um he dropped a glass when you walked into the pub. glass everywhere. don’t tell me you didn’t hear theon shout ‘OPA!’ when it happened

Alright, so maybe Sansa has to admit that she’s got a point there. But it doesn’t matter, really, does it? The facts remain, and the fact is there’s nothing Sansa can do about this. Because that’s what she’d decided, right from the beginning of this meddlesome crush — that she would do nothing about it, and someday she’d get over it.

And here she is, ten years later, having done nothing and not over it in the slightest.

But it’s more complicated now than it was back then. Sure, back then it was bad enough, crushing on her older brother’s best friend, but now Jon is more than that. He’s her friend, too, and worse still he’s been her roommate for eight months and counting.

The arrangement was one of sheer practicality. Jon and Robb had been sharing a place since post-grad; but Sansa’s brother had always been luckier in love and as such, he’d moved in with his boyfriend Theon (a love story in its own right) a few months back. Jon hadn’t been keen on subletting to a stranger and, as it happened, Sansa was offered a job at a seamstress shop only a few streets away. And so — badda-bing, badda-boom — Jon had offered her the spare room as a means to an end for both of them.

_A means to an end. That’s all this is._

Really, she shouldn’t complain. The situation has been a godsend, regardless of her inappropriate romantic feelings. So what if those feelings were only exacerbated by their close proximity? She’s an adult, she can handle it if Jon knows how she takes her tea in the mornings. She does have some self-control, after all. The fact that he, without fail, makes her dinner whenever she’s had a particularly bad day doesn’t make her want him more. Of course not. And just because she’s seen him half-naked several _thousand_ times by now, that doesn’t mean she’s close to coming when his bare chest happens to brush up against her back as he’s reaching around her to grab the milk from the fridge or… whatever.

 _Oh, fucking_ gods _…_

Sansa rolls onto her stomach to better bury her face in a pillow, as if that could shield her from making the dumbass decisions she’s already made. Of course it does no such thing, but it does muffle her frustrated screams. While that doesn’t solve anything, either, sometimes a good scream’s a necessary release.

Not as good as an orgasm, Sansa is willing to bet, but far easier to come by. And she’s never been disappointed at the end of a good scream, whereas her paltry string of boyfriends had never managed to satisfy her half as much. There had been plenty of _almost_ ’s, but the _almost_ was in some ways worse than the _not-even-close_ ’s.

The memory of all that pent-up sexual frustration only serves to make her scream louder, and not in the good orgasmic way — _never_ in the good orgasmic way.

So maybe Margaery’s right — she tends to be — and Sansa really does need that vibrator.

As if Sansa’s creeping gratitude was some sort of Bat-Signal, the wall vibrates with her ringing phone. She drops it twice before the room stops spinning enough for her to get her bearings, and swipes her thumb across the screen to answer.

“Stop ignoring me, you slut,” Margaery greets her good-naturedly.

Sansa huffs a self-pitying, long-suffering breath. “I was screaming.”

“With ecstasy?”

“Self-loathing.”

“And you call _me_ the certified drama ho.” Although Sansa can’t see her, she can practically hear the eye-roll. “That might be too kind a name for it, though. I’d just call you a bitch.”

Sansa scowls, half-heartedly because she knows Margaery is right. Not that she’d admit that out loud, though, and so she replies — a little drunk and ever clever — “I’m not a bitch, you’re a bitch.”

“Um, you’re the one who keeps getting sad drunk over a guy you could have if you wanted him. And you _do_ want him, so… Come on, Sansa, do the math.”

But she’d never been any great shakes at maths, in any sense of the word.

“You’re not accounting for possible variables,” Sansa points out, as if she’s got any idea what she’s talking about. Which, as stated, she doesn’t, but… Well, belief creates the fact, doesn’t it?

Apparently intent on testing this unspoken, newfound philosophy, Margaery prompts her, “Oh? And those variables would be what?”

“The possibility — nay, the fact,” Sansa remedies firmly, because _this_ she believes without question, “that Jon has no interest in me besides a purely platonic one.”

“Is it just me, or is ‘platonic interest’ somehow an oxymoron?” Margaery speculates so crisply that Sansa might think she wasn’t drunk at all, if the pair of them hadn’t gone shot-for-shot at the pub earlier. “Not that it matters, since I’ve never seen anything wildly less-than-platonic than the palpable sexual energy whenever you two are within about thirty feet of each other. I swear, last time we all went out, I picked up a pregnancy test on my way home.”

“What do you mean, you bought a pregnancy test?” Sansa wants to know. “You haven’t been with a bloke since ages before Yara.”

“One of the many perks of doin’ it with Yara Greyjoy,” Margaery says, “but you miss my point. Which is that the sexual chemistry between you and Jon is just so… _so_ , that I legitimately feared for my status as the spinster vodka aunt.”

That gets an easy laugh out of Sansa. _“Certified drama ho.”_

“An embellishment,” Margaery defends herself over Sansa’s stream of chuckles. “Necessary hyperbole for the sake of your poor, neglected clit.”

Sansa snorts. “How is your nonsensical pregnancy test supposed to help me?”

“I’m making a point,” Margaery reiterates. “And my point is that Jon wants to fuck your brains out so bad that it’s devastatingly obvious to everyone. Well, everyone but your brother,” she amends. “Robb is blissfully ignorant, probably because he’d prefer to pretend that his baby sister lives like a septa. Which is fair enough, little miss I-haven’t-had-so-much-as-a- _vibrator_ -in-two-years.”

“Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Oh my Seven, don’t thank me,” Margaery insists in tones of all seriousness. “It’s detrimental to your survival. No thanks required. I’m only doing my duty as a decent human being.”

There’s the hyperbole again. “It’s not that big a deal.”

Margaery sighs, long and low. “You depress me so much sometimes. You know your track record isn’t normal, right? You’re supposed to _enjoy_ sex. A revolutionary concept, I know, but sex isn’t actually supposed to make you feel like shit.”

Sansa squirms uncomfortably. She knows, sure enough; she just doesn’t like to think about it. She doesn’t like to think that she’s wasted her love life thus far, no matter the truth behind it. It is what it is.

But then, Sansa doesn’t think she’s meant to be resigned to it, either.

The sigh that escapes her is just that, though — resigned. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming again.

“Can we maybe save the psychoanalysis or…” Sansa presses a hand against her forehead and stares resolutely up at the ceiling. “Whatever? Let’s just say _I know_. I don’t feel like digging deeper tonight.”

“It’s not that deep when it’s this obvious,” Margaery says, but then thankfully moves on. “But I won’t go full sex therapist on you. You can work out the kinks when you get your vibrator. Delivery’s Tuesday. I know you work late Tuesdays but no worries, love, the packaging’s discreet. Jon will have no idea that you’re replacing him with a battery-operated boyfriend.

“Actually,” she continues before Sansa can argue that she can’t very well replace Jon when she hasn’t got him to begin with, “maybe that’s better than a human boyfriend, anyway. The battery-operated ones don’t talk. It’s kind of like dating someone who’s pretty but dumb, except you don’t have to listen to the stupid shit they say.”

A bit of a low blow, Sansa thinks, her mind on Jon. “What about someone who’s pretty and smart?”

“I’m sorry, are we still talking about men? Men aren’t _smart_ , Sansa,” Margaery drawls in such a way that Sansa almost believes her. “Not even Jon. That’s why you two aren’t fucking, because he’s too stupid to make a move.”

“I feel like your logic is flawed.”

“And I feel like I’m drunk, so maybe chill.”

“You don’t sound drunk,” Sansa observes, and then all at once she’s moping again. “Gods, how is it that you’re always so composed, meanwhile everything I do is a disaster, drunk or not?”

“Oh my — are we really doing this?” There’s another one of those nearly audible eye-rolls. “Listen, Hot Mess Express, you’re wound tighter than a… I don’t know, something that’s wound really tight —”

“A spring,” Sansa offers, but that only makes Margaery _ha!_ , short and sweet.

“Springs are made to be sprung, _mi amor_ ,” she says. “And you haven’t been _sprung_ in longer than I even care to know because I’m sure it’s depressing.”

Sansa lets the jibe slide, mostly because Margaery makes a fair point.

“But never fear. Like I said, your salvation is due by Tuesday. No use brooding over the past when the future looms so bright.”

“An inspiring sentiment. You should write greeting cards.”

“‘My deepest condolences to your clitoris, shriveled from lack of use,’” Margaery recites so effortlessly it’s as though she’d had a prototype prepared for Sansa’s suggestion. “Yeah, I’ll make a fortune.”

Before she can wonder aloud if that’s even biologically possible — and Sansa would put her money on _not_ — a knock on her door disrupts the conversation. She cuts off Margaery’s next attempt at Hallmark prose with a quick “I gotta go,” and of course Margaery knows why.

“Don’t hang up!” she pleads. “There’s only one good reason Jon would be knocking on your door after midnight. Put me on speaker! I’ll serenade your first time, listen — _‘I’ve been really tryyyyyin’, baby, tryin’ to hold back this feeling for soooo long —’_ ”

Sansa clicks the call off before Margaery can hit the chorus, but it’s hardly any use; Marvin Gaye’s going to be stuck in her head the rest of the night.

_And if you feel like I feel, baby, then come on, come on…_

She shakes it off on the few steps it takes to get to her door, but when she opens it to find Jon — leaning on the frame, arms crossed, curly hair in its usual disarray, grey eyes dilated and bloodshot from a late night — the song in her head only intensifies.

Jon smiles tiredly at her. His voice is hoarse when he asks, “Hey, sweetheart. You feeling alright?”

 _Sweetheart._ She hates when he calls her that. It gives her _ideas_ , like what it might be like for him to call her that in all manner of intimacy. What it might be like to hear him call her _sweetheart_ when his voice is hoarse not from exhaustion, but pure, unadulterated want — low and rough and rumbling in her ear, with his mouth on her neck and his hands twisted in her bedsheets or braced against the wall or maybe the kitchen table —

 _Mother, maiden, crone…_ Tuesday’s mail can’t come soon enough.

_And neither can I._

Sansa shifts on her feet so that her thighs rub together, the same way she’d shifted back and forth in her seat earlier, when Jon’s leg had settled next to hers and proceeded to thrust her into a state of embarrassing sexual frenzy.

Gods, but she’s never been this hard-up in her entire life.

“I’m fine,” Sansa assures him in a way she can only hope is breezy. “You get Robb home okay?”

“Yeah.” Jon rubs the corners of his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. He smirks. “He’s gonna kill me next time I see him, though. He’s gotta pull the weekend shift and I swore we’d be done by eleven, but here it is, one A.M. and change.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she singsongs.

“Well I got you back home alright, didn’t I?”

But, hopelessly in love with him as she is (not that she _is_ , only… well, she is), Sansa can’t let him off so easily. So she snorts and says, “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“Did you always play this hard to get?”

“Jon, we live right above the pub,” Sansa reminds him. She knocks her heel against the floor to emphasize the fact.

Jon sighs and pushes away from the doorframe. “You’re so high-maintenance,” he grumbles, but there’s a grin on his lips when he leans in to press a kiss to her forehead.

He lingers there, and a hand comes up to cup her jaw, like he’s just waiting for her to pull away but he wants to keep her close. So close that she can smell the spearmint gum on his breath and the hint of hops that lingers beneath it.

She can smell it, she can feel the heat of it hit her skin, her hairline, and she wants to know what it tastes like, too.

When his calloused thumb sweeps over her pulse point — and surely he can feel it beating hard and fast and like a rhythmless drum, _surely_ — Sansa’s breath catches in her throat. She presses her own lips together to keep her wayward thoughts from tumbling out. She doesn’t know what, exactly, would tip off her tongue if she let it, only that she’d regret it as soon as it happened.

Because it doesn’t matter how she feels or how long it’s been since she’s been _sprung_ , so to speak. It’s never mattered.

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip to brace herself for the hard truth she has to tell herself, again and again — that she has to lose the daydreams and just be content with what is.

She feels Jon’s lips pucker against her forehead in a second, slower kiss. She feels his thumb graze gently just behind her ear. She feels her heart pound and fall and _swoop_ , thundering erratically all the while. She feels her breath catch, again, when Jon’s fingers fall to tug affectionately at the ends of her hair.

She feels like she’s going to be sick.

Not truly — she’d managed to avoid overshooting her alcohol tolerance tonight — but Jon must notice something’s off, too. His brow crinkles in concern as he studies her with that bloodshot but nevertheless intense gaze.

“You sure you’re alright?” he wants to know. His hand is still tangled in her hair. “You look sorta… flushed.”

Always an irresistible look on a redhead, Sansa thinks ruefully. This cherry tomato will have him eating out of the palm of my hand in no time. (As if going-on-ten-years wasn’t time enough, she thinks further. But then she doesn’t actually mean to have Jon in any way whatsoever, so the timing’s irrelevant.)

“Probably all the drinking,” Sansa says, eager to brush it off. “You’re not looking especially pale yourself.”

“Not compared to you, Casper.”

Sansa levels him with a glare. “If you’re going to intentionally hurt my feelings, I’d appreciate an insult that’s not so outdated.”

“Oh, come on.” Jon chucks her under the chin. Sansa is hard-pressed not to bite him. “I’m teasing. You don’t look like a cartoon ghost at all, you know how pretty you are.”

“Right,” she mutters, unconvinced not of her prettiness, but that Jon would think so.

Maybe it’s just the rum making her so self-deprecatory, as usual, but it’s been a long time since Sansa’s allowed herself to imagine _what if_ her feelings were reciprocated. She can hoard all the sexual fantasies she likes, but imagining that there could be more between her and Jon is a dangerous game that’s probably not worth playing.

And it all starts with him calling her _pretty_ , even when it’s in not so many words, and Sansa’s not going to indulge the compliment by overthinking it.

“See?” Jon gives her another smile. “Hard to get.”

She nudges his shin with her foot. “Quit flirting with me and go to bed.”

His grin turns mischievous. “Yours or mine?”

Sansa almost successfully ignores the little thrill that shoots up her spine, but she hides it well all the same. “You’ve had too much Guinness to make that offer even slightly appealing.”

“Damn it.” Jon lifts his hands in surrender, but his lips — unfairly kissable ones, at that — are still twitched upwards. “I yield.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and leans in for another kiss, this time on her cheek. Sansa has to brace herself anew to keep from melting into him. She’s quite relieved she’d quit drinking while she was ahead tonight, otherwise she’s sure she’d do something incredibly stupid right now, like tilt her face at the last moment to catch his mouth with hers.

She could blame it on the rum, sure, but putting the tipsy moves on your brother’s best friend — your _roommate_ for practicality’s sake — just isn’t something you bounce back from.

So she keeps her mouth where it is, just one smooth move away from a kiss, and prods Jon to shove him back a step. It’s light, friendly, and she utterly hates doing it.

“Sleep it off, Casanova.”

“Talk about your outdated references.” Jon scuffs his boots on the floor and heads to his room. He shoots her another one of those smiles over his shoulder as he goes. “Night, sweetheart.”

_Sweetheart._

Sansa shuts the door and hops back into bed, still fully dressed, and — for lack of anything more useful to do — proceeds to scream into her pillow all over again.


	2. i’m going blind from this sweet sweet craving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: i was gonna wait to post this chapter, but 1) i so immensely appreciate the comments so far, and 2) it’s nearly 4am for me and idk what time i’ll roll out of bed tomorrow (today, whatever, after i sleep), so i figured i’d hand over the next installment now.
> 
> pls enjoy my theatric use of the rubber spatula, aaaaand goodnight

There’s some science behind whatever the hell Jon’s problem is, he’s sure; he just hasn’t been able to crack the genetic code. Frankly, he hasn’t been trying that hard. By the ripe old age of twenty-seven, he’s accepted the fact that he’s an idiot and figures there’s no turning back now.

Sharing this sentiment with the only person who knows about Jon’s _problem_ , as it were, only serves to validate his own character assessment. That’s probably not a strictly good thing, considering that his assessment is so disparaging, but at least it’s consistent.

And so he sucks it up and broaches the topic with Arya again.

 **JON** : I’m an idiot

 **ARYA** : you won’t hear any arguments from me

 **ARYA** : what’d you do this time?

 **JON** : I was minding my own business… leaning back in my chair when I was supposed to be working… thinking about Sansa… and then I maybe might have fallen out of my chair… and I broke my glasses too

 **JON** : They just flew right off my head

 _And the arm just snapped right off_ , he adds privately as he switches out the busted pair for his wireframed spares. At least he can do most of his computer programming work from home, and is thus saved the humiliation of falling out of his chair in the middle of an office.

But Arya isn’t half so merciful. Jon returns to her texts, his vision fully intact now, and promptly regrets telling her a thing.

 **ARYA** : how dare you describe this to me. that’s MY SISTER you’re wanking to, you fucking neanderthal

 **JON** : I wasn’t WANKING TO anyone!

(Okay, so maybe he’d been getting there. But he’s not about to admit that to anyone, least of all Arya, who’s positively insufferable when she’s proven right.)

 **JON** : God why is that where your mind always goes to??

 **ARYA** : because men are animals

 **ARYA** : all any of you ever do is wank and cry about it

 **ARYA** : ‘oh woe is me jon snow, who can’t pluck up the courage to tell sansa that my dearest wish is to motorboat her ‘til i suffocate, so instead i use my own self-pitying tears as lubricant while i bemoan my romantic ineptitude’

Jon doesn’t care how accurate that summation might be (and it’s right on the nose, really, although Jon wouldn’t put it _quite_ like that, if only because it bruises his ego to be eviscerated so). Rather than admitting defeat, Jon pretends that no such lascivious thoughts have ever crossed his mind — although of course his mind’s nothing _but_ lascivious thoughts when he’s got Sansa on the brain — and instead points fingers.

 **JON** : What is the MATTER with you????

 **ARYA** : oh, please, jon you stare at sansa’s tits so much that you could pick them out of a lineup, i KNOW that’s what you’re thinking about when you’re having a go at yourself

 **JON** : _typing…_

 **ARYA** : thirsty bitch

 **JON** : QUIT ANALYZING MY MASTURBATORY HABITS

 **ARYA** : NO

Okay, so maybe he should have known Arya would go there. He’s known her as long as he’s been friends with Robb, so well over a decade by now; she’d always been like a brash, no-nonsense little sister to him, just as she was to Robb and Sansa. She was so no-nonsense, in fact, that she manages to see through all manner of bullshit, like she’s got some brand of X-ray vision.

That’s the best hypothesis Jon can come up with, anyway, since Arya had called him out for his not-so-platonic feelings towards her sister a handful of years ago.

Jon couldn’t pinpoint the exact time or place or what color fireworks went off in his head when he realized, without question, that he wanted to be more to Sansa than another pseudo-big brother ( _gods_ , no, that’s just about the last thing he wants). But he bets Arya would be able to tell anybody who asked, if they were so inclined.

Jon had asked her once, right at the beginning, “How did you know?” But Arya had only looked at him with some cross between incredulity and exasperation, and all she’d said was _Because I’ve got 20/20 vision and nothing better to do_.

And that was all she wrote.

 **JON** : ???????

 **ARYA** : i’ll stop when you shut the fuck up and ask sansa out on a date for the love of GOD

 _Oh, ha ha ha._ Jon’s throat dries out at the mere thought of it. _As fuckin’ if._

 **JON** : How am i supposed to shut up AND ask her out? THAT’S A CONTRADICTION IN TERMS ARYA

 **ARYA** : and you’re a dumbass in denial JONATHAN

 **JON** : I resent that. I’m not in denial- i’m perfectly prepared to admit that i have the hots for your sister. I’m just not perfectly prepared to admit that to Robb

And that’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it? Jon heaves a sigh and — because he’s feeling a stress nosebleed coming on — leans his head back to stare at the off-white ceiling.

It’s what he’d been telling himself from the beginning: She’s Robb’s little sister, and therefore _persona non grata_. End of discussion.

But, of course, it was far from the end of it; it barely scratched the surface. And perhaps, on some level of subconsciousness, he’d been telling himself this from _before_ the beginning, before he had admitted that he was an utter fool over Sansa Stark. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t tell you when he’d found himself in this mess — because he was already in the middle of it before he recognized what it was.

“Ah, fuck,” Jon mutters to himself, a rueful curse. He was a romantic of sorts, so he’s not put-off or even surprised by such musings. But moping around like damn Mr. Darcy has never solved anything. Nutting up and going for it like Mr. Darcy might yield better results but, well… Jon had long ago decided that wasn’t an option, so moping it is.

Arya, though, has her own ideas.

 **ARYA** : wtf is it with men and their inability to discuss their feelings with each other?? robb’s your BEST FRIEND

 **JON** : He’s also your big brother. More importantly, he’s SANSA’S big brother, and he’d kill me. He’d actually murder me with his bare hands

 **ARYA** : so what the hell are you gonna do about sansa, then?

 **JON** : Suffer silently and forever

 **ARYA** : or i could just screenshot this convo and send it to her

Jon doesn’t bother replying to that. Arya’s only trying to scare him into admitting things he has no business admitting, but she’d never force his hand; nor would she present her sister with something that would no doubt make Sansa uncomfortable.

No matter her feelings for him — and Jon is quite sure there are no “feelings” to speak of — he’s still a constant presence in her life and apartment. Nobody wants to deal with a family friend and roommate who can’t keep his dirty thoughts to himself. But Jon _has_ kept them to himself, Arya’s intimate knowledge of the subject notwithstanding.

Living with Sansa wasn’t supposed to last; it had started off as a temporary fix for them both. But eight months out and it’s working so well, there’s no reason to switch it up now. He and Sansa know each other’s schedules, don’t drive each other batty (unless you count Jon’s sex-crazed panic attacks, which he _doesn’t_ ), he saves her the last of the microwavable taquitos and she knows to keep the kitchen stocked with chamomile tea to alleviate any of his “moods.” As far as roommates go, it’s the perfect situation. Why put a stop to a good thing?

Well, okay, granted, Jon knows exactly why he should put a stop to it. Because you don’t lust after your best friend’s sister for however-many years, ask her to move in with you, and think about her naked whenever you hear the shower running. You just _don’t_. Except, well… Jon does.

Or, at least, he did, before he started exercising his powers of self-control. He’s still reduced to a whimpering, lovesick puppy whenever Sansa so much as puts a pot of coffee on (pathetic, but it’s _fine_ ), but that doesn’t mean he has to act like a total dog.

The occasional lascivious thought perhaps cannot be helped; he is human, after all, and sometimes a guy’s just got a one-track mind. For the most part, though, Jon simply pretends that Sansa is a completely non-sexual being. He’s still in love with her, but at least he’s keeping his hands to himself; so as senseless as it is when you think about it, it more or less does the trick.

He’s living in denial, but it’s preferable to Sansa’s surefire rejection and Robb’s homicidal glare, isn’t it?

(Well, there’s no way to know for sure, but Jon would put his money on it.) It’s not a thorough enough plan to be considered a _plan_ at all, but whatever works, right?

His phone chirps with a new message. He checks it to distract himself from impending ennui — melodramatic, but true — and finds another text from Arya, who wouldn’t let him off on a distraction if he paid her.

 **ARYA** : alright you called my bluff i’m not gonna screenshot anything. but you should still tell her

 **JON** : And what about Robb?

 **ARYA** : look i don’t claim to know jack shit about the ‘bro code’ but i still think it’s safe to say it’s inarguable fucking nonsense

 **JON** : Far be it from me to blaspheme the sacred texts, tho

 **ARYA** : you’d better hope i die before you otherwise i’m gonna make sure your tombstone reads ‘here lies jon snow, blue-balled and brokenhearted, and he’s got no one to blame but himself’

 **JON** : That’s going to cost you a small fortune

 **ARYA** : oh, whatever. what am i gonna do, take the money with me when i die? might as well use it to ensure your eternal humiliation

Jon wouldn’t put it past her. Hell, he’d even agree that he deserves it. Not that that’s going to change his mind, but then he can’t imagine anything at all that would compel him to do so.

Later, he’ll look back on this and think of it as a prime example of kind-of-poetic-irony. But for the moment, Jon takes pride in his resolution. It’s a sad, lonely sense of pride that doesn’t actually make him feel like he’s doing The Right Thing, but…

Okay, so there’s no upside to it. But that doesn’t change anything, either.

“Gods, I’m not even drunk,” Jon mutters, berating himself for his morbidity. It’s three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon and he’s stone-cold sober; this is far and away _not_ optimal brooding time.

Knowing when to admit defeat, Jon pushes away from his desk and heads for the kitchen. Sansa works late on Tuesdays so the afternoon coffee’s on him. He’s not sure that a caffeine boost will do his nerves any good, but maybe a shot of Bailey’s in his mug will do the trick.

He’s pouring his first cup — in one of those crudely-made ceramic rejects Sansa had picked up for fifty cents at the nearest secondhand shop — when the apartment door is kicked open.

“Thanks for knocking,” he greets dully, because Theon Greyjoy never knocks and at this point Jon would be tremendously surprised if he did.

Theon is self-aware enough to know this, and so he ignores the slight.

“Got your mail,” he greets right back. He dumps the bundle of envelopes and a plainly-wrapped package on the table before swiping a mug of coffee for himself. “Bailey’s?”

Once he’s dropped a generous amount into his own cup, Jon hands it over, and an admonishment with it. “Stay out of our mailbox.”

“You gave me keys.”

“No, _Robb_ gave you keys last summer when we went to our class reunion, and you never gave them back.”

Theon shrugs through a swallow of spiked coffee. “I’ve been picking up your Playboys so Sansa doesn’t see them. You’re welcome.”

Theoretically, he could ask Theon why he thinks Jon has any interest in Sansa’s opinion of his mail, but: one, while Arya is the only one who indisputably knows about the hots Jon is harboring for Sansa, he figures everyone but Robb (and the girl herself) probably has their suspicions; and two, he doesn’t subscribe to Playboy, anyway.

When he points out the latter, Theon only shrugs again. “So maybe I’m just a nosy bitch. But I’m glad to hear it. You know Sansa’s last boyfriend was obsessed with porn? And I mean _obsessed_. Mark Wahlberg in that movie he did with Reese Witherspoon levels of obsessed.”

“ _Fear_?”

“That’s the one.” Theon snaps his fingers, pleased. “Anyway, if you want a chance with Sansa, you don’t wanna be _that guy_.”

Jon mutters a simple, unconvincing “I don’t know what you’re talking about” into his spiked coffee.

“Sure you don’t.” Theon spares Jon his pointed stare to duck his head into the fridge instead. “Mind if I use up your eggs? I’m feeling an omelette.”

There’s at least half a dozen eggs left over from last week’s carton but, eager to discuss anything besides Sansa, Jon tells him to have at it. He tosses Theon the spatula when he fetches the scissors, intent on opening the package sitting amongst the bills and junk mail. The new universal remote wasn’t due for another couple of days, so Jon chalks up the early delivery to a pleasant surprise.

(It had, after all, been an _un_ pleasant surprise when Theon had broken the old one in an exasperated fit. Jon had sworn up and down that Theon and Robb weren’t allowed to watch _The Bachelor_ at his place anymore, as all they did was destroy personal property whenever Sansa won the bet about which contestant would end the episode sans rose. And she _always_ won the bet.

(So, in any case, Jon figures the remote’s sooner-than-expected delivery was the universe’s way of compensating him for all the dramatic bullshit his friends put him through.)

He slices through the brown packing tape and unrolls the bubble wrap, all the while wondering if they’ve got the proper batteries laying around somewhere…

And then, quite suddenly, he’s forced to wonder if he even knows what the proper batteries _are_. Their last remote took triple-A’s, which is all well and good, but — _but_ , Jon’s brain short-circuits on the word — this is absolutely not the new universal remote.

Jon can’t quite recall the brand he’d ordered, but he’s pretty sure there’s no remote on the market advertised in swirly silver script as the _Satisfyer_. Nor do household appliances tend to exactly resemble a vibrator, which is, without question, what’s displayed in the picture on the box.

 _Yeah_ — there’s an odd ringing in his ears now — _definitely a vibrator_.

Clutching the seemingly unthreatening white box in one hand, Jon uses the other to flip the box it had come in right side-up. The name _Sansa Stark_ is typed, neat and bold and plain as day, across the top of the address slip.

“Oh,” he breathes, and the realization is physically painful. “Oh, _shit_.”

“Hm?” Interest piqued by his friend’s obvious distress, Theon quits fiddling with the stove to butt in. Confused, he frowns for the slightest of moments, but he’s already seen that almost-inconspicuous box and the damage is done.

“What is that — oh, shit,” Theon echoes when he answers his own question. He whips the spatula around in a sudden but palpable panic. “What the fuckity frick frack _fuck_ —”

He whacks the spatula at Jon’s hands, catching the box and sending it flying.

“Fuck, man, it’s not like it’s been used!” Jon says, but he’s just as panicky as Theon and his free-swinging spatula. “It’s still in the box!”

“Well what do I know?” Theon is still waving the spatula heedlessly about, his barely-begun omelette forgotten. “Obviously nothing, since I didn’t know you were in the market for sex toys. Ones that aren’t even anatomically possible for you, by the way!”

“It’s not mine!” Jon swipes the _Satisfyer_ from the floor, the tips of his ears even pinker than the sex toy in question. “I thought it was the remote — which, you know, by the way, you should’ve paid for in the first place —”

“Don’t change the subject!” Theon points the spatula at him. The black rubber wriggles ominously. “You’ve clearly got money to burn! What do you need clitoral stimulation for, anyway, _hmmmm_? You don’t even have a clit! Are you that out-of-tune with your own body?”

“Okay, first of all —” Jon gestures with the retrieved box as wildly as Theon gestures his spatula “— not mine. Second, anatomical possibilities or whatever aside, don’t act like this is the weirdest possible kink, okay? Damn. I’m surprised you and Robb’ve never given it a go.”

“Fair enough, I guess,” Theon concedes. “Just… I’m surprised that you’d be into anything other than missionary position in the dark, alright?”

At that, Jon bites his tongue. Since he’d admitted to himself that he was already halfway in love with Sansa, his sex life had ceased to exist. And he planned to keep it that way, too, until he figured out what the hell he was going to do about it (Jon understands this might mean a life of celibacy, but he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it).

But Theon can think as he likes. His opinion is pretty much the least of Jon’s worries at the moment. _At the moment_ , he’s busy tapping nervous fingers against the edges of the box. The vibrator’s box. The _Satisfyer_ ’s box. Sansa’s box.

Oh, god, he’s going to pass out.

Jon pushes his spare glasses — which he’s sure to break, too, if he keeps thinking about Sansa and the _Satisfyer_ and Sansa using the _Satisfyer_ — up the bridge of his nose and starts tapping on the box again, like he doesn’t know what else to do with it.

Fittingly enough, he doesn’t, so he poses the question, “What should I do with it?”

“Uh?” Theon huffs out a laugh. It seems obvious to him what Jon should do with it, when the man himself genuinely has no idea. “Chuck it and show Sansa you can do it better.”

Jon’s eyes flit over the miniscule description printed on the box. Cursory it may be, and yet he has to admit, “I’m… not sure that I could.”

The spatula’s pointing at him again. “And _this_ is why I think you’re probably lousy in bed. Look, I trust the sex toy industry as much as the next guy, but it’s not just about the orgasm. I mean, that’s sort of the point, but it’s not the _whole_ point. Not to a sappy romantic like Sansa.”

Numb as he is, Jon manages a nod. He’s known Sansa since they were kids, so he’s picked up a few things here and there — even more so by the time he’d realized how much he wanted her. He _notices_ things. And even if he wasn’t a sad, sad lovelorn idiot over her, it’d be hard to miss the collection of romantic comedies that are stacked and alphabetized in their communal DVD rack.

Jon just never figured he’d be discussing the matter with her brother’s boyfriend, whilst deliberating over her freshly delivered vibrator.

It is, to say the least, _surreal_.

Somehow — probably because he’s not tied up in knots over her — Theon maintains an air of reasonability, and soldiers on.

“Sansa needs a good O as much as anybody else.” He raps his spatula atop the _Satisfyer_ in Jon’s white-knuckled grip. “But she wants more. She wants somebody who’s gonna eat her out and then buy her dinner and cuddle with her. You know? Crazy dirty fucking and a little TLC. It’s like, _the duality of man_.”

Jon’s jaw clicks when his teeth gnash, totally of their own accord. “How the hell do you know what she wants?”

“Unclench, you fucking caveman,” Theon scoffs. “I’m bi and monogamous, shocker,” he adds, the sarcasm dripping off his tongue. “The only person I wanna get down with is Robb. Idiot.”

“Sorry.” And Jon looks it, too, so Theon waves his faux pas aside.

“So yeah, some of us are capable of talking to Sansa without being, like, overwhelmed by the desire to bang her,” he continues. “Which means I can talk to her about her sex life without giving myself blue balls.”

“She has a sex life?” Jon asks before he can stop himself, before he can so much as hide the pathetic disappointment the question betrays.

“Cry me a river, man. No, she’s drying herself out waiting for you to bless her with _the_ _rains down in Aaaafrica_ —”

“Fuck you.”

“Look, you can pretend you didn’t see this,” Theon offers in such a way that it blatantly suggests it’s not actually an option. But Jon is already well-aware of _that_. Theon is, too, if the way he prods the box repeatedly is any indication. And, coupled with what he says next, it’s about as indicative as a blazing neon sign.

“But I don’t think that’s gonna work. I don’t think you’ll actually be able to pull that off. Sansa doesn't have to know but _you know_. You think you can pretend she’s just Robb’s little sister now?”

Theon smothers a laugh and shakes his head. “You could barely do that as it was, dipshit. And now every time she shuts her bedroom door, you’re gonna have to face facts that she’s probably making herself come. Meanwhile you’ll mope around on the couch because you’re an asshole.”

Jon wants to argue that. He wants to smack that accusatory rubber spatula out of his face and maybe whack Theon upside the head with it. He wants to tell Theon, _again_ , that he’s got no idea what he’s talking about, even though he does and Theon knows it, too.

He wants to keep faking it, because maybe faking it hurts, but at least it’s doable. It’s realistic and he’s used to it.

But the actual reality of the situation — the reality he’s been trying to avoid by creating his own version of it, if only to maintain his sanity — is still clutched in his hands, still ringing in his ears, and Jon knows that he’s _completely_ , indisputably fucked.

His gaze is glued to the box when he mutters under his breath again, “Shit.”

Theon nods solemnly beside him and agrees, “Shit, indeed.”

And then he smacks Jon in the back of the head with the spatula, just to drive the point home, and returns to his omelette.


	3. let’s start living dangerously

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: thanks for all the comments so far! i don’t reply to all of them, but i DO read and love every one so much that i wanna marry them. and tbh they make me update faster, y’all will probably have this whole fic sooner than i originally intended
> 
> as for this update in particular: sort of similar to the pasta sauce-licking scene from my fic “when we kiss, mmmm fire,” but we’re all adults here, okay, let’s not pretend we don’t like it when jon fantasizes about eating stuff off sansa, it’s fine

It’s past ten-thirty when Jon stumbles through the apartment door, pleasantly tipsy. Theon had convinced him to go downstairs for a few drinks with the boys to calm his obviously frazzled nerves. It hadn’t taken much convincing at all, since Jon had been ready-set to drown himself in Bailey’s and coffee _before_ he’d unwittingly opened Sansa’s package, and certainly afterwards.

Five-odd hours after the fact, Jon has had more than the offered “few,” and if anything he’s even more frazzled than before. He hadn’t meant to get this strong of a buzz going, but once Robb had asked him for the fourth time “Are you sure you’re alright?”, it simply couldn’t be helped.

Because no — no, of course he isn’t alright. But Jon is not about to tell Robb why, precisely, he’s never been less alright in all his life. He couldn’t even admit his romantic, totally altruistic feelings for Sansa; and now that they’ve taken this sharp, irrevocable, unavoidable turn into lecherous territory — because Sansa’s got a vibrator and Jon knows about it and he _can’t stop thinking about it_  — he’s prepared to take it to the grave.

But, in the spirit of the day’s sudden, uncomfortable realities, Jon finds that Sansa isn’t asleep as he’d hoped she’d be. His plan to avoid her until he could pretend the accidental mail-opening had never happened is immediately shot to hell.

Far from the silent stillness he’d expected to find upon his return, the apartment is alive with light and music and an aroma that, to Jon’s drunk sensibilities, is some kind of heaven-on-earth. It stands to reason, then, that what he’d walk in on would be heaven itself, and yet he’s not at all prepared.

He does, however, have enough presence of mind to be thankful that Sansa’s got the music on so loud. The dulcet tones of Bruce Springsteen cushion the sad little whimper that escapes Jon as soon as he enters the kitchen, rather than go straight to bed as he ought to. But he’s just drunk enough to bypass his better judgment; besides, going to bed alone cannot compare to the miles of leg Sansa is showing off in her little cotton sleep shorts.

So, detour to the kitchen it is.

“What are you making?” he asks as he walks up behind her.

Sansa jumps, just a bit, in surprise. Jon takes note of the blush on her skin, no doubt courtesy of the several empty wine cooler bottles on the countertop. At least he’s not the only one.

“Don’t sneak up on me!” she chastises, but keeps her back to him, all the better to concentrate on the contents of the bowl she’s mixing.

Looking over her shoulder as he is, Jon can get a pretty good look down the front of her camisole top. Not that he _does_ — no, it’s hardly a glance before he’s clearing his throat and focusing pointedly at the microwave clock at his eyeline. _10:42_ glares back at him in harsh (and oddly judgmental, but maybe that’s just all the beers talking) green numerals.

“Turn the music down and you would’ve heard me come in.” Jon reaches around her for the iPod dock, but she smacks his hand away. _“Ouch.”_

“Absolutely not,” Sansa tuts, ignoring his protest. She dips the wooden stirring spoon into the bowl, frowning slightly. “This is what those bratty neighbor kids get for skateboarding down the hall all night. I don’t care that it was their spring break, some of us still had to work. I was living off iced coffee and revenge fantasies all last week. Turning the music up to eleven on a school night is the most passive-aggressive retaliation I could think of.”

“Their parents are going to complain.”

Sansa shrugs one shoulder, causing the strap of her shirt to droop, ever so slightly. Jon swallows, hard, and tries fruitlessly to concentrate on the neon green time. Sansa shrugs again to shift the strap back into place, but it doesn’t matter since he can still see down her shirt that’s hardly a shirt at all.

“Not like I can hear them knocking.” She scoops whipped, creamy frosting onto the spoon and turns to face him. “Here, taste this, would you?”

Jon eyes the proffered dessert with some unease. It’s not like she’s offering to let him eat frosting off her tits or something, but — _oh, gods help me, why did I have to go there?_ Jon would kick himself if he could get away with it, but the unease has already been replaced by arousal and there’s nothing he can do about it.

To make matters worse, he glances at the bowl and figures there’s enough homemade frosting to cover Sansa from her throat to her tits to that space between her navel and her pussy, and he really doesn’t need it to go any lower than that because he’d get on his knees for her, frosting or no…

Fuck fuck _fuck_ , maybe he’s had too much to drink.

“Uh —” he swallows again, if only to give himself a moment to gather his haywire, sexually frustrated thoughts, because he very well already knows the answer to his question “— what is it?”

“Buttermilk icing.” Sansa wriggles the spoon under his nose. “I’m making cupcakes for Margaery tomorrow, as a thank-you for — um.”

Sansa’s tipsy flush grows deeper, so that the pink of her face clashes horribly with her red hair, up in a messy topknot, but Jon dearly wants to chase its progression with his tongue. From her temples to her cheekbones to her lips…

He stifles another pathetic whine. Jon has never been this drunk around her before. Loose enough to lower his inhibitions, to flirt a little more openly, sure; but fantasizing about getting Sansa all mussed up before he can excuse himself for a little privacy? _That_ he’s managed to avoid.

Rightfully so, he thinks just as soon as Sansa prods his lips with the spoon; and even though she hasn’t explicitly touched him, his cock responds with a very interested twitch.

“Try it,” she insists, apparently eager to distract him from the reason behind her blush. Jon wonders at it, fleetingly, but it’s difficult to focus on anything when he’s imagining _trying it_ , alright, if only she’d let him smear her in icing. “I might’ve overdone it on the sugar. You know how I get. Remember the brownies that went from triple-batter to, like, octuple-batter on New Year’s? I’m a little overzealous when I’ve been drinking.”

 _Same here._ Jon nods dumbly because he does remember the brownies ( _disgusting_ , but he’d eaten them all the same), while he shifts from one foot to the other, as if that’s going to deter his oncoming erection. Which has nothing to do with the brownies, only now Jon is thinking about licking brownie batter up the line of her stomach, too.

Is he really about to give up his denial game just because he found her vibrator and, consequently, he’s too hopped up on booze to avoid it?

_Probably._

“I can’t believe I have to try this hard to get you to eat something,” Sansa teases, but it’s not funny when it’s all Jon can do to keep from thinking about eating _her_.

She’d like that, wouldn't she? That’s what the _Satisfyer_ was all about — clitoral stimulation, designed to replicate oral sex… And Theon had said it, too, that Sansa wanted a guy who’d go down on her, somebody who wanted her enough to care.

_Fuck me, this is all Theon’s fault._

First he breaks their universal remote, and now he’s to blame for snapping Jon’s self-control, too. All the rounds they’d bought downstairs were decidedly not good for Jon’s resolve.

But…

He thinks his heart might dislodge itself from his ribcage. He tries to swallow his nerves, but the rampant _pound-pound-skip_ of his heart tosses them right back up into his throat.

 _But_ , Jon wants Sansa enough to put her first. It’s not even a question.

So how bad can it be, really, to show her that?

“Alright, alright.” Jon takes her wrist before Sansa can pry his mouth open. Her pulse jumps when he wraps his fingers around it, but Jon can’t be smug about it when his does likewise. “Dunno what you’re so worried about. You could’ve poured a whole pound of sugar in and Margaery would’ve scarfed it, no problem.”

“Shut up and lick my spoon,” Sansa demands through a slightly-drunken giggle.

“Bossy,” Jon mutters. He ignores the next twitch in his pants that tells him how much he likes it when Sansa gets bossy with him, and promptly sucks the spoon into his mouth to stop thinking about it.

This, of course, fails spectacularly.

It’s his own fault, Jon thinks, as he holds Sansa’s gaze with his own steady one. He can’t help but look at her, can’t help the slight but obvious groan that catches in his throat as he laps at the frosting and her pupils dilate. Her hand quivers, and Jon has to wonder how he could get her trembling if he dragged his tongue anywhere else but the spoon she’s holding for him. Behind her ear and up her slit come to mind.

(The fact that Jon has, in one fell swoop, been reduced to a sex-crazed mess with no rationale to speak of comes to mind, too, but the lack of rationale makes this fact much easier to accept.)

When Sansa’s hand gives another involuntary jerk, Jon’s grip on her wrist tightens. The dessert tastes _good_ , rich and creamy, and he wonders if she tastes like that as well — rich, creamy, sweet… The thought makes Jon hum around the spoon. He twirls his tongue once more over the wood, and keeps a hold on her hand even as he releases the utensil from the hot recesses of his mouth.

His tongue keeps going, swiping his lips as his eyes stay locked on Sansa’s. Their usual blue is overtaken by dilated black, and her face is blooming a deeper shade of pink that travels down her neck to her chest, and — yeah, Jon is definitely staring at her tits now, and she’s definitely braless under that camisole.

He snaps his gaze back to hers. “That’s, uh, that’s really good.”

“Not too sugary, then?” The question comes out on a rasp. Sansa clears her throat but the damage is done.

“Nope.” Jon shakes his head, his hand caressing the inside of her wrist with the movement. His boots nudge Sansa’s bare toes, and she shuffles back half a step in response, only to be boxed in against the counter. He wonders if she minds it, but the way she’s looking back at him suggests that she doesn’t. “It’s just about perfect.”

For that, he gets a quirked eyebrow — or an attempt at such casual indignation, anyway. But Sansa’s pulse is pitter-pattering beneath his touch, and Jon likes to think that means something more than _casual_. If he’s really about to throw caution to the winds, he’d like it to be on more than a drunken whim; he’d like it to be substantial, reciprocated, so that he doesn’t end the night with a knee to the groin and — when the too-many-beers haze lifts in the morning — a disappointed, broken heart.

“ _Just about_ perfect?” Sansa prompts when he doesn’t elaborate. Her back straightens when he nudges closer. “You think I could make it better, then?”

“Uh-huh.” The agreement is a muted, absentminded one. The tang of the icing is still on his tongue, but Jon’s gaze has dropped again to settle on Sansa’s lips, and he thinks he’d like to swap the taste of her buttermilk frosting for the wine coolers she’d been drinking earlier. “So, um… listen…”

Again he tries to swallow his nerves. His throat bobs, his eyes flick to hers, he takes a deep breath that hitches because he’s _so_ close to her now, so close that he can smell her cocoa-butter lotion, sweeter than the icing he’d tasted, and _ohmyfuckinggod, I wanna taste her…_

Sansa gives him a smile, a twitch of her lips, uncertain, and Jon’s self-control is too far gone for him to think straight now.

“You know what, just —” his hands slip to the sides of her neck, fingers tangling with the loose tendrils of her hair, thumbs sweeping her jaw and mapping the skip of her pulse “— fuck it.”

Before she can ask him _fuck what_ , Jon’s mouth is on hers, and Sansa’s lips part for him so readily that he wonders if she’d meant to ask for an elaboration at all.

Which is just as well, because Jon’s head is spinning into oblivion and he’s rather sure his presence of mind, his rationale, all that had been hanging on such a fine thread, has well and truly snapped.

 _Ah, well._ Jon is just coherent enough to bid adieu to all of it. It wasn’t good sense that had gotten his tongue in Sansa’s mouth, after all, so it couldn't have been all that good to begin with.

The wooden spoon falls to the ground with a _clatter!_ , and Sansa’s fingers are twisting through his curls.

It’s a medley of sensation — her lips, slightly chapped, moving with his; her breath, hot and sweet, crashing upon his tongue; her hands, earnest and wandering and grasping at his henley, bunching the material between his shoulder blades; the arch of her back as he pushes her harder into the counter, the tight press of her chest up against his.

Jon’s hands move from her face, down to the front of that flimsy camisole. He strokes the sides of her breasts, eliciting a high whine from Sansa that he exchanges with a low growl. He changes the angle of the kiss, crushing her lips harder and delving his tongue deeper. She keeps up with the relentless, almost-sloppy — _eager_ — pace he’s set, so immediately in tune that it’s as though she’s just been waiting for him, for this, for _them_.

He cups her tits and shoves a knee between hers. Her cotton shorts snag on his jeans, and he tilts his thigh to push them up higher, to expose more of those legs that had him panting as soon as he’d walked into the kitchen.

A little roll — discreet, maybe even unconscious — of Sansa’s hips against his thigh makes his cock twitch again. There’s nothing to distract him from it now, either, so Jon meets the slow cant of her hips with his own. One hand moves to her ass to guide her movements, so Jon can move harder, more purposefully against her, to make her give him another one of those high little whines — and another, and another…

Every one of them, he swallows greedily. Sansa gasps into the kiss and Jon swallows that, too. He bites her lip and sucks it between his teeth, his lips, soothing the ache that makes her moan.

Her hands fall to his hips and now she’s guiding him, too, so that his hard, denim-clad cock grinds into her cunt. His grip on her ass tightens. He wants to shove those little plaid shorts up, up, _up_ , wants to rip them in half, he wants to take her on a ride with his fingers, his mouth, his cock — whatever it takes to make her feel good, to make her come, he’d do it over and over and over again.

Jon groans when she arches again and sucks on his tongue. His thumb grazes her nipple, and if he could only bear to break their kiss he’d suck on it, too — he’d mouth at her breasts over her shirt, he’d tug that neckline down and suck on her tits while he shoved a hand down her pants. _Soft and hot, wet, tight…_

He groans again, panting into the kiss, and he ruts harder against her with every haggard breath between them.

She’s riding his leg, thrusting against his pulsing cock, and it’s _good_ — fuck, it’s way, way too good the way that she responds to him, like she’d been waiting for this and he’d been fool enough to keep her waiting.

What had he been doing that for, anyway? Making her wait, intentionally, with no endgame or plan at all to speak of. He knows there was a reason… Perhaps now’s not the time to try and remember it, but the harder Jon kisses her, and the more insistently he presses her against the counter, the more that niggling doubt in the back of his mind makes itself known.

 _Oh_ — Sansa’s fingers spear through his hair just as the cold hard reality spears through his chest — _oh no oh no ohnoohnoohnoohno_ —

“Shit,” he mutters into her mouth before jerking backwards.

He takes a hasty step back, which doesn’t do much good because now he can see Sansa properly. Eyes dark, lips swollen, cami rumpled… Jon assumes he looks much the same, but seeing Sansa flushed and tousled and knowing that it was because of him, that _he’d_ done that, only makes him want to do it some more.

But he can’t. He really, really can’t do this. He’d felt a thousand shades of guilty when Robb had asked him earlier what was wrong, and then it had only been because he’d opened Sansa’s mail — a federal offense on top of everything else, Theon had not-so-helpfully pointed out when Robb wasn’t listening.

Now, though, now Jon had gone and felt her up. He would have fucked her right here in the kitchen if his good sense hadn’t kicked in. And yeah, maybe good sense had never gotten him what he wanted with Sansa, but there was a reason for that and Jon had let himself forget it.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” His voice is hoarse, torn between meaning what he says and not being sorry at all. “I shouldn’t’ve — we shouldn’t’ve — no, that was me, all me, but you know Robb would kill me, probably, so I shouldn’t’ve — Sansa, I’m sorry —”

He keeps babbling, hoping that somewhere in the midst of it all he’ll say the right thing. Meanwhile, Sansa just stares at him. Her hands are braced on the counter’s edge behind her, like he’d made her knees too weak to stand on her own — _fuck off, man, don’t think about it or you’ll lunge at her again_ — her lips slightly parted as she catches her breath.

Jon doesn’t know how much longer he can look at her like that without chucking all his half-assed apologies and picking up where they’d abruptly left off. He suspects it’s not long at all.

So to spare himself more of the trouble he’d caused, he utters one last, probably meaningless “I’m sorry,” and hightails it out of the kitchen before his good sense can abandon him again.


	4. a real-life fantasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: first of all, i’m such a fuckin sucker i swear i was all “oh i’ll update every couple of days” and not 24hrs later i’ve given y’all more than half the story, smh @ me
> 
> well. c’est la vie and all that. anyway... 
> 
> another shoutout to wwkmf within, and also my apologies to kit harington (you’ll see why in approx five seconds)

**SANSA** : Something happened.

**MARGAERY** : how deliciously vague

**MARGAERY** : is it that you named your vibrator? i know bob’s the default, ‘battery-operated boyfriend’ and all, but you can’t call it that. i insist. i mean, can you even imagine screaming the name ‘bob’ in the throes of passion? no. you can’t. because it’s ridiculous

**SANSA** : Poor Bob.

**MARGAERY** : ‘clit harington’

**SANSA** : Why do I feel like that could get me sued?

**MARGAERY** : fine just call it jon, then

**SANSA** : That’s what I need to talk to you about!

**MARGAERY** : ...are you implying that something’s actually happened with jon?

**SANSA** : I’m not implying anything. I am EXPLICITLY STATING that something happened with Jon.

**SANSA** : Like, we-made-out-and-inadvisably-but-aggressively-dry-humped-in-the-kitchen sort of something. He-almost-made-me-come sort of something. But then he sobered up HARD, I guess?? He freaked and apologized and locked himself in his room.

**MARGAERY** : doll you got me SHOOK

**SANSA** : Well SHAKE IT OFF because I don’t know what to do!! WHAT DO I DO???

**MARGAERY** : YOU STOP TEXTING ME AND GO GET SOME (and you remember EVERY LAST DETAIL because i’m gonna want those later!)

**MARGAERY** : and don’t give me that ‘i can’t!!!’ business again. YOU CAN. it’s too late to turn back now!!

**MARGAERY** : you just stroll right into his room and throw your panties at him. you’ll make him feel like bon jovi, boys love that

**SANSA** : Boys OUR AGE love that? Reference seems a bit dated.

**MARGAERY** : ‘livin’ on a prayer’ will never be dated. any song that drunk white people (such as ourselves) inexplicably always know the words to is immune to cultural dissolution. it’s practically shakespearean

**MARGAERY** : ‘sweet caroline,’ ‘come on eileen,’ ‘don’t stop believin,’ ‘bohemian rhapsody’ …need i go on? like, romeo and juliet WHOM??

**SANSA** : I’m having a CRISIS, back to the point, PLEASE.

**MARGAERY** : you know what? until you figure out this jon thing our lives are never going to pass the bechdel test. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?? just constant discussion of a man who left you hanging halfway to orgasm?? GO FINISH THAT ORGASM

**SANSA** : HE RAN AWAY

**MARGAERY** : oh my god you’re freaking out. I’M freaking out. i’m experiencing secondhand blue tubes

**SANSA** : You’re right. I’m freaking out. Definitely freaking out. I don’t think I can process this tonight.

**MARGAERY** : i’m equal parts :( and don’t-make-me-kick-your-ass

**SANSA** : Sigh. You and me both. Speak later. xo

Sansa scrolls through the messages again, as if they hold some hidden meaning that will help her figure out what to do next. No such luck.

Robb had texted her, too, an hour-or-so ago, but that’s only made her feel worse.

**ROBB** : Jon get upstairs okay? Or should we send out the search party?

**SANSA** : All good here. Nothing to worry about.

But it’s _not_ all good and there is _plenty_ to worry about. Not that Sansa can share those truths with her brother. Much as she’d like to text him back _Yeah, Jon got upstairs just fine. Almost got in my pants just fine, too, but it’s probably thanks to you and that whole ‘bros before hos’ thing that he panicked before he could graduate from feeling-me-up to getting-me-off_ , that’s not an option.

And, okay, maybe she wouldn’t necessarily _like_ to divulge those details to her big brother, but the point still stands.

Sansa huffs and stares up at her ceiling, lit only by the dim glow of her bedside lamp. This always seems to be where she ends up lately: alone in bed, a little bit drunk and a lot confused, and feeling like a prize idiot for letting an adolescent crush continue to get the best of her. To be fair, though, that adolescent crush had had his tongue down her throat and his dick grinding against her twenty-something minutes ago. So it’s not entirely her fault this time but, all things considered, that only serves to confuse her more.

_Confuse, arouse, leave not-quite satisfied… Whatever._

She hadn’t been lying when she told Margaery that she couldn’t process this tonight. She could pick through the details and all the contributing factors, but Sansa can’t do that, either, not really. (If she were to do that, she’d blame the whole thing on the music she’d had playing. Springsteen’s “Fire” is, without question, the most sexually-charged song of all time. You can practically _hear_ the hip thrusts, so when you think about it, it’s no small wonder this had happened.)

All she can think is that it’s too much, and maybe there’s no better explanation than that. It’s not like she’ll figure anything out tonight, anyway, Sansa is hard-pressed to admit but forces herself to do so. Best leave it ‘til the morning.

_If I can even get Jon to talk to me in the morning._

Sansa dismisses the thought as soon as it comes. Regardless of tomorrow, she’s certainly not going to get Jon to talk to her _tonight_ ; and, frankly, she doesn’t know if she could bring herself to talk to him right now, either. There is, however, one thing she can figure out, no wait required.

She’d been planning on trying out the _Satisfyer_ tonight, a plan which has become nothing short of a necessity since Jon had gotten her all hot and bothered. That, coupled with the fact that he’s in the bedroom next to hers, intensifies the throbbing he’d left between her legs.

Sansa would have preferred that he finish what he started, she thinks as she pulls the box from her nightstand. But between his sudden panic and her resultant confusion, there’s little chance of that happening ever, much less right now.

But she’s not meant to be thinking about that, Sansa reminds herself firmly, and pushes the thought from her mind. She can drive herself mad with worry about that later.

She drops two batteries into the vibrator, secures it, and takes a moment to study it. The _Satisfyer_ is something of a far cry from her first vibrator. That one had been a bright purple but otherwise standard wand she’d picked up when she was twenty-two, and had just suffered her first serious break-up. She’d spent a better year with that vibrator than she’d spent any time with her exes, none of whom graced her fantasies while she used it. No, that honor had always gone to Jon, and Sansa knows it will be no different tonight.

Her mind wanders back to the feel of his hands on her tits. _Especially_ not tonight.

The _Satisfyer_ is sleek and compact, a pretty blush color topped off by a butter-smooth white hood. She’s yet to use it, but Sansa’s first impression is that it’s a more mature toy than the one she’d started with. But then, her twenty-two-year-old self had never imagined she’d want oral sex. It had taken a couple of years and a lot of exercises in self-esteem to admit — that, despite what her exes would have her believe, a blowjob for them and a handy for her wasn’t actually an equal trade.

A mistake of the past, she thinks, and presses the _on_ button to test whether or not the _Satisfyer_ might make up for that.

It emits a nearly silent, gentle sort of whirring that grows in intensity with every click of the button. Sansa flicks through the settings until she’s back at the first and, with that Jon-induced ache still throbbing in her pussy, she shoves the vibrator down her shorts, settles the hood over her clit, and —

_Oh._

She takes the intensity to a three. The vibrator picks up its pace, humming against her clit as insistently as Jon had kissed her earlier. Her eyes flutter closed as she thinks about just that — the way Jon had kissed her, like he’d wanted her as long as she’d wanted him. It had been fast and hard and _heavy_ , somehow, hot and heady.

Sansa presses her lips together, trying to chase that feeling; she presses the _Satisfyer_ ’s button, encouraging herself to revel in a manufactured oral sex that’s worlds better than the unfinished attempts of boyfriends past. Per the instructions, she could simply lay passive and the vibrator would bring her to orgasm.

But Sansa thinks of Jon, of the way he’d pinned her against the counter and thrusted into her, and her hips undulate of their own accord. She recalls the scratch of his stubble on her lips, and takes the _Satisfyer_ to a five. His hand kneading her breast, and the other sliding ‘round her hip to grab her ass… _six_ … His warm breath on her neck, panting into her mouth… _seven seven seven_ … Sansa clasps the vibrator, tilting it in time with the rotation of her hips, as she tries to replicate the pattern Jon had set as he rolled his own hips, his hard cock, against her.

She imagines it’s Jon between her legs now: The rapid puffs of air from the hood are bursts of his breath, the pulsation is the press and flick of his tongue. Her free hand trails down her thigh and grips, strokes, and grips again, digging her nails into the smooth expanse of skin. Even though her hands are smaller, softer, she pretends it’s Jon’s — yanking her behind the knee to pull her leg over his shoulder, to open her up to his ardent, persistent tongue…

The apartment is quiet and dark. Sansa had switched off the music after Jon had all but fled to his bedroom. She’d turned out the lights on her way to her own room. And all the while, she’d been trying desperately to stop the mad hammering of her heart, the rush of thoughts through her mind, the lingering tingle down her spine and the pang of want thrumming in her cunt.

She doesn’t try to stop any of it now.

She takes the _Satisfyer_ higher and harder, and lets her mind scream _Jon Jon Jon_ as she goes. The hand on her thigh moves to her hair, clutching and tugging at it the way Jon had in the kitchen — _god, I’m never gonna be able to bake again without getting turned on_ — Sansa has to bite her tongue to keep quiet. The walls are terribly thin, and Jon is right on the other side of hers.

A stubborn part of her doesn’t want him to know how much he’d riled her up, doesn’t want him to know how much she wants him, or hear her say his name when she comes and she’s _so close_ —

There’s a rushing in her ears, but the quiet beyond is shattered when her door — left unlocked because the damn thing’s been busted since before she moved in — swings open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)


	5. cake by the ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: well the results of the last update were all very hilarious for me, but i’m too empathetic for my own good and also a slut for validation! so i can’t keep you waiting any longer bc the art of anticipation is for people who have, like, pride and self-control, of which i have none
> 
> so much as i’d like to keep you salivating... whatever here’s some more

“Okay, look, kick me out if you want but I think —”

Jon stops about two-and-a-half paces into the room, hands raised placatingly and now frozen in midair as his brain seems to catch up to what he’s interrupted. His eyes widen and a rush of color floods his cheeks. “ _Ooooooh_ my god.”

“Seven hells, Jon, this is why we have the ‘knock three times’ rule!” Sansa scrambles up into a sitting position, adjusting her pajamas, but at this point Jon has seen enough that she might as well strip naked for him, too.

She presses down on the _Satisfyer_ ’s button ‘til it turns off, regretfully so since she hadn’t gotten to come this time, either. She shoots Jon a glare — one that’s likely weakened by her own bright pink blush, but it’s the _principle_ of the thing — for that.

“Did you need something?” she demands when Jon just stands there, staring, making her feel like even more of an idiot than she did earlier. Her breath is coming sharp, and her pussy is seriously starting to go the bad kind of numb from denied orgasm after denied orgasm. The last thing she needs is for the self-consciousness to start creeping in.

“I, uh —” Jon swallows. Sansa can see the bob of his Adam’s apple from halfway across the room (but then, her room’s rather cramped so the distance isn’t much to speak of). “I was thinking that we should talk.”

“Really? You wanna talk?” Sansa is sure to keep her tone unimpressed. She fiddles with the vibrator in her hands and wishes she could’ve finished with it before Jon burst in to make his grand, sweep-a-girl-off-her-feet declaration that they need to _talk_. “Because last time you wanted to do something, you didn’t finish it and now I feel confused and stupid and really, really… agitated.”

She releases a sigh with the last word, pushing equally agitated hands through her mess of an updo. The _Satisfyer_ falls into her lap, and Jon’s gaze follows its descent.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Sansa scowls at him, but he doesn’t so much as crack a grin at her expense. No, he’s looking at her… _strangely_ , is the only word that comes to mind when Sansa tries to decipher it.

“What?” she snaps, feeling increasingly ridiculous with him looking at her like that. Whatever _like that_ actually is, she doesn’t know, only that it’s making her squirm.

“I just…” Jon starts to say, but then his jaw sets and his brow furrows. It’s the face he makes when he’s working something out in his head; Sansa’s seen it a thousand times before, usually when he’s trying to decide what he wants for dinner. Why it makes her so nervous now is really beyond her, when she half-expects him to tell her he’s ordering Chinese, and then maybe he’d leave her to finally, mercifully top off this orgasm.

But instead he says “Okay” with more conviction than Sansa ever supposed could be uttered in two syllables. The look Jon is giving her now is less strange and more intent, and it makes her squirm just as much.

“Feel free to hit me or tell me to fuck off or — whatever.” Jon takes the one final, almost-tentative step to her bed before he’s clambering onto and across the mattress towards her. “But I think this is what I’m supposed to do and if it’s not, well, fuck it because I’ve gotta try it, anyway.”

Before he can finish this declaration — much better than his first, Sansa decides, as he seems to have foregone _talking_ for _showing_ — Jon’s mouth is back on hers, so fervently it’s as though it had never left. It takes just one press of his lips, one swipe of his tongue, before Sansa’s forgetting her agitation. If Jon wants to relieve her of it, she’s well-prepared to let him.

“You’re not gonna regret this halfway in again, are you?” she asks when he releases her mouth for her throat.

“Nuh-uh.” Jon shakes his head into the kisses he’s planting down her neck. He takes her under the knee, just as she’d been imagining scant moments ago, and yanks her, hard, so that she’s flat on her back again. “No, sweetheart, I’m not gonna leave you high and dry again. God, I’m such an asshole — ow, fuck,” he mutters, cutting off his own self-reproval. “What the hell?”

Jon’s hand snakes between them. Sansa’s hips lurch when his fingers brush the apex of her thighs, but his touch is quickly gone as he pulls the _Satisfyer_ out from between their writhing bodies.

“Right,” he says as he studies it, “so, you know I accidentally opened this earlier —”

“You did _what_?”

“I didn’t look at the recipient, I thought it was the new remote,” Jon explains. “So I freaked out because I was trying to keep my hands to myself, meanwhile you were doing — well, _this_ , and I’ve wanted to do this for a really fucking long time, Sansa, but — Robb, so —”

“Can we maybe put a moratorium on talking about my brother when you’re on top of me?” Sansa suggests.

“Right,” Jon says again. He tosses the vibrator aside, so that it rolls to the other end of the double bed, and returns to kissing down her neck towards her chest. “I wanna try that.”

Sansa’s riding on a major high at the moment, but all the same she doesn’t dare hope that Jon means what she thinks he means. That is, until he hitches her leg over his hip and keeps talking — “I wanna go down on you. Like. _Bad_.”

 _Oh._ So, it’s absolutely what she thought he’d meant, then.

He peeks up at her where he’s made himself busy at the neckline of her cami, while his hands push it upwards to reveal her stomach. “That alright with you?”

“Uh — yeah.” Sansa nods vigorously. Her smile is shaky and her cunt is quivering where Jon’s hardening cock is pressed against her. “Yeah, that’s more than alright with me. It’s amazing with me, actually. Can’t come soon enough.”

 _“Brilliant,”_ Jon mumbles emphatically, his response muffled only by the fact that he’s mouthing at the valley between her breasts.

Sansa arches up when he tugs at the elastic of her sleep shorts; she shimmies to help him get them off, but the movement makes him grip her hips and hold them steady.

“It’s… really hot when you do that,” Jon tells her through a deep, strained breath. “So just, stay still for me as much as you can.”

“If I’m staying still, I don’t think you’re going down on me right,” Sansa points out.

“Shit. Yeah. Probably not.” Jon chuckles, breathless, and pulls her shorts, panties and all, off the rest of the way. “Alright, so I’ll try to keep a handle on my self-control here and _not_ come in my pants. You, though, you move with me as much as you want, sweetheart.”

 _Sweetheart._ The word comes in a hushed, breathy murmur against her cunt as Jon teases her mound with nips and licks. Sansa rolls her hips, just slightly, invitingly, but it’s enough of a go-ahead for Jon to open his mouth and lick up her slit.

“Oh, holy fuck me —”

Jon groans into her folds and laps at her with further enthusiasm. He flicks the tip of his tongue across her clit every so often, but not so often as to have her coming right away. Sansa gets the impression that he wants to make this last, no matter how impatient she is to have done with it already.

But she’d always been impatient — always ready for it to be over as soon as it started. The only times she let herself linger over the pleasure was when she was giving it to herself, never when someone else was in charge of her release. They never pulled through. Jon, though…

Sansa moans his name, cards her fingers through his curls and tugs. Jon has just begun and she never wants him to stop.

He holds her fast, his hands grasping her ass the way he had earlier, guiding her movements so that she’s grinding purposefully into his mouth. He keeps his darkened gaze locked on her face, his eyes fluttering shut only occasionally and fleetingly as he takes long, languid tastes from her pussy.

“ _God_ , that’s good,” he gasps when he comes up for air. His breath is harsh, chest heaving. Jon’s hands slide to her calves, to push them higher until Sansa’s feet are braced on his shoulders. “You’re so good, sweetheart, Sansa, I swear to god this is making me so hard.”

Sansa thinks that might be some sort of signal, that he needs to stop before he comes, before _she_ comes, but there’s no time for the disappointment to settle before Jon is eating her out again. He inhales deeply, methodically, as he takes her cunt with his lips, tongue, and bursts of hot, ragged breath.

She’s really going to have to reevaluate her faith in men. Or, at the very least, make an exception for Jon.

He concentrates on her clit now, lapping and sucking to bring her to peak, but he doesn’t leave the rest of her lonely. He teases her folds with a finger, then two, before pushing them both inside of her cunt.

And then — _then_ — a moan rips from Sansa’s throat when, all at once, Jon sucks on her clit and curls his fingers, and his free hand gives one, smart smack to her ass. He groans into the sharp rotation of her hips that pushes her pussy harder against his mouth.

She’s coming but he’s not stopping; he laps at her through her release, just as hungry and eager as he’d been at the beginning. Sansa’s tense muscles give, pooling out in ripples of pleasure, and her lower half collapses back onto the bed. Her hips fall from Jon’s grasp, her feet slip from his shoulders, and her toes curl into the tangled sheets beneath them.

And even still, Jon keeps it up. He continues to lick her as he glances up to find her surely flushed and probably damp with sweat. ( _Glistening_ , Sansa tells herself. _Glistening_ is much more flattering.) Seeing that she’s come down from the high he’d given her, Jon pops his head up. He’s grinning as, with the neck of his shirt, he wipes his beard clean.

Clearly just as — if not more so — satisfied with himself as Sansa is, Jon asks her, voice rough but nevertheless playful, “So I gave the new vibrator a run for its money, at least?”

“At least,” Sansa agrees. She swipes her tongue across her dry mouth, tasting the salt of her sweat that had gathered above her upper lip. “You pleased with yourself?”

“Oh, immensely.”

She laughs, as best as she can manage when she’s this short of breath. “Good. Me too.”

Jon hums contentedly, and crawls his way up her body, littering kisses as he goes. Up the line of her stomach, pausing to nip at the smooth undersides of her breasts… up her sternum to her pulse point where he swirls his tongue… then to her chin, her lips. He stops his ascent altogether there, to drink deeply from her mouth. She can taste herself on him — hot, musky, tangy — and she kisses him harder for it.

He meets her vigor with his own, licking into her mouth just as he’d buried himself in her cunt. His hips start up a steady push-and-pull against hers. Sansa’s sure she’s spoiling his jeans with her arousal, but Jon doesn’t seem to care.

“Off,” he mumbles into her mouth. He pushes impatient hands up her already bunched-up camisole. “I want this off.”

Sansa tugs at his shirt in turn. “Yours too.”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Jon complies, and yanks the thing over his head while Sansa disposes of hers. Jon is kneeling over her now, their legs tangled together with the mussed sheets. He’d unsnapped his jeans while he went down on her to give his aching cock some relief, a fact he readily confesses which only gets Sansa hotter for him.

His mouth is on her neck again as she palms him through his undone pants. She’ll have polka-dot hickeys come morning, but Sansa doesn’t mind it. His lips feel so good on her skin — gentle but firm, warm and soft and ceaseless — that no amount of concealer would be worth pushing him away.

“Condoms?” he asks suddenly, but his uncertainty doesn’t seem so urgent when he continues to suck a mark behind her ear.

“In the nightstand.”

Jon pulls back to lift an eyebrow at her.

“Margaery always makes sure I’m stocked,” Sansa explains. She reaches over to rummage through the drawer while Jon kicks his jeans off. “‘Just in case,’ she says, but I never use them so I’ve got — damn, like six boxes in here.”

“That’ll do.” Jon grins and snatches the foil packet from her fingertips. “Good thing, too, because I don’t have any. Been celibate since I figured out I was in love with you.”

Sansa thinks, faintly, that those words should make her heart stop, but they don’t. Not because she’s scared or she doesn’t feel it back, but because it comes as no surprise; it just feels _right_.

So, apart from stopping, her heart starts skipping like Mexican jumping beans and she laughs, right in his face.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Jon comments dryly, but he’s still grinning. He brandishes the as-of-yet-unopened condom. “Should I bother with this, or is this your way of shooting me down? We could make balloon animals out of them, I s’pose, don’t want them to go to waste.”

That makes her laugh harder. Sansa tries to stop it by pressing her lips to his, once then twice then three times before she loses count.

“I love you, too,” she tells him. She can feel his smile widen under hers. “But maybe we can make balloon animals out of the old ones.”

“See, it’s that kind of resourcefulness that makes me really want to fuck you.”

“Got nothing to do with the fact that I’m naked, then?”

“Nope.” Jon spares her tits a glance before he’s back on task, rolling the condom on. “Not in the slightest.”

Sansa’s laughing again, but Jon cuts her off this time with a hungry, open-mouthed kiss right off the bat.

And so it follows that Sansa is once more overcome with the sensations at present — not just the giddy emotional thrill in her heart, but the satisfied tingle in her clit and the press of Jon’s naked body atop her own. She would attest to the fact that the giddy emotional thrill makes the rest all the better, all the more fulfilling, but there’s a whole wondrous _newness_ in experiencing this with Jon that makes her want it all, all at once.

Lucky girl that she is — and, after tonight, Sansa will think of herself as nothing less — Jon is ready and willing to give her everything, because that’s just as he wants it, too.

With his nose at her ear and his hands on her hips, Jon coaxes her backwards so she’s laying flat upon her bed again. He finds her mouth and their kisses grow in eagerness and sloppiness alike; tongues seeking, teeth knocking, exchanging sighs for moans when his hard cock nudges between her legs. Sansa’s hips flex upwards to chase that friction.

“Oh, fuck —” Jon’s breath hits her neck, hot and shallow. He dips his hand between them to finger her again, to make sure she’s wet and ready for him.

“I’m alright,” Sansa assures him. “More than alright. I’ve been wound-up all night thanks to you, you’ll have me coming again in no time.”

She bites back a giggle at the pained look on his face, even as his kiss-swollen lips twitch.

“I feel like I should be insulted by your nonchalance, but… it’s so hot.” Jon’s next words are muffled as he begins to suck along her jawline. “I’m definitely gonna have to fuck you about now.”

He enters her then, with one sharp thrust that has them both groaning, both snapping their hips to intensify the pressure. Jon hooks a hand behind her knee again, this time to pull her leg around his waist so he can fuck her deeper — right away, because they’ve waited long enough, and there’s no going back now.

It’s somehow better and not at all comparable to what Sansa had always imagined. Her fantasies had kept her sated, even grounded in reality. They had been safe, a way for her to follow through on what she wanted without ever actually risking rejection and heartbreak. That reality had seemed inescapable, but her fantasies had been an escape all their own; they’d been a comfort amidst all those times the ugly truth would come knocking to disrupt the hopes that Sansa harbored — hopes that were, in a word, _hopeless_.

Now, though, in one single shot in the dark, in one insatiable press of Jon’s mouth to hers, those fantasies had burst forth in a storm of color and sensation and this-is-really-happening.

 _Oh my god_ — Sansa’s mouth catches Jon’s in a frenzied kiss when the realization crashes down upon her — _this is really happening_.

“This alright?” The question is stunted, strained. Jon’s forehead is pressed to hers as he slows his thrusts to give them both a moment to adjust. Droplets of sweat dot his brow and his pupils are blown wide, lips parted as he takes deep, broken breaths in and out. His heart pounds erratically along with Sansa’s. She holds him tighter, and swings her other leg around his hips to encourage him.

“Faster,” she murmurs as she rears up, just a bit, to kiss his neck. She rolls her hips into his the way she’d done with the _Satisfyer_ earlier; her gasp turns to a needy whine when she feels him reciprocate, when his dick pushes harder, fully inside of her. “I want it faster.”

“Fuck yes, baby.” Jon hisses when she sucks his earlobe between her lips, when she teases it with her teeth. He groans, his voice rendered nothing more than a scratch of _“Don’t stop.”_

He grasps her hips, directing her in time with his now-rapid thrusts. Sansa licks the salt of sweat from his neck, her dry lips catching on his scruff as she goes. Her fingers twist into his curls, and every tug, every dig of her nails into his scalp, makes his breath come harder and the delicious push of his cock come faster, just as she’d asked.

Their pace is unraveling quickly into a mad, rhythmless fuck. When Sansa pulls his hair again, Jon yanks her calves hard enough to jerk her down the bed just as he’s pushing upwards into her again.

“God _damn_ it, it feels so good when you do that.” Jon drags hot, sloppy kisses down her chest. He opens his mouth around her nipple and his subsequent moan reverberates into her skin. “Keep it up, sweetheart, and I’m gonna come.”

To that, Sansa twists her fingers more securely in his hair. She scrapes her impeccably filed nails over his scalp, and her pussy hums with renewed pleasure when Jon continues to fuck her relentlessly into her mattress.

“Come on, then,” she tells him. She bucks upwards and plants kisses wherever she can reach — his chin, the hollow of his throat, his collarbone, all damp with sweat and barely-contained restraint. She wraps a curl ‘round her thumb and tugs it with a sudden, sharp insistence. “Come on, let go and give it to me, Jon…”

A jolt of surprise shoots through her when Jon shakes his head into the crook of her shoulder.

“Nuh-uh.” He flicks his tongue over her skin and drops a hand down between them. “Wanna get you off one more time first.”

She’s certainly not going to argue with that. Any such protests would have been immediately silenced, anyway, as Jon rubs determined circles against her clit while rocking more purposefully into her wet, throbbing cunt. Sansa wants him to come as hard and heedlessly as she had, but it seems that her pleasure only spurs his own onwards.

 _That’s it_ , Sansa decides — just as Jon brings her to another orgasm, with deft, persistent caresses of his fingertips on her clit and deep strokes of his cock into her pussy, with hot and shallow breaths on her neck, followed by his mouth clinging desperately to hers — she’s _definitely_ going to be reevaluating her faith in men at the next available opportunity.

Such opportunities will be few and far between, if Jon has his way, but it’s no matter. He’s the only man Sansa will need to put her faith in from here on out, and he doesn't intend to let her down.

A series of hot tingles and hard shudders rock Sansa’s body. Her back arches as Jon loses his rhythm entirely, and he pounds into her with reckless abandon. His blunt nails dig into the supple flesh of her thighs, and he’s cursing into her throat, down to her breasts, when his hips stutter and then falter with his own release.

They lay together, entwined, panting into pillowcases and sweating atop half-priced bed sheets, trying to get their bearings even as they cling to the afterglow.

Sansa’s grip on his hair loosens and Jon’s hold on her hips slackens, but they keep their hands on each other. Gentle sweeps across her stomach and down his back, slight undulations of hips and light brushes of toes down calves, ankles, before they curl in contentment when Sansa’s lips pucker at his temple or Jon’s part over her pulse point.

“Fuck me,” Jon mutters at long last, and so reverently, “that was awesome.”

“Incredible,” Sansa agrees.

He removes himself only long enough to dispose of the condom, but he’s back in bed with Sansa in no time. Jon props himself up on his elbows to look at her. His face is pink and still covered with a fine sheen, Adam’s apple bobbing with every short breath. It looks as though he’d just finished running a marathon, and Sansa’s sure she looks just as worse for wear.

But god damn if it wasn’t worth it.

Jon pushes an affectionate hand through her bird’s nest of a topknot. “Remind me why we haven’t been doing this for… I dunno, a really long fucking time?”

“Well…” Sansa traces the shape of his lips with a feather-light touch. “If I hadn’t put that ban on talking about my brother while you’re on top of me, I’d say it’s because you don’t know how to break the news to Robb.”

“Ah, shit.” Jon offers a grin, drops a kiss, and rolls off her.

He doesn’t give Sansa much time to breathe, much less doubt him, when he tucks her snugly against his side. She releases a relieved sigh, and the weight that had begun to settle on her heart is lifted again when he continues talking.

“Yeah, that’s gonna suck,” Jon admits, while he keeps up his ministrations through her hair. “But that’s what I was thinking about earlier. One of the things, anyway. I mean, I dunno about you, but I’m totally fucked up over you whether Robb knows it or not. So if I want you, I might as well…”

“Come and get me, right?” Sansa supplies when he trails off.

He chuckles into the kiss he plants on her brow. “Something like that, yeah.”

Sansa nuzzles into his neck, and finds some cheerful security in his pleased sigh when she does so. “I’m totally fucked up over you, too, if it helps.”

“Thank the gods.”

“That’s sort of what the whole I-love-you-too thing was about,” Sansa reminds him.

“Right, well…” Jon shrugs as he busies himself with undoing her tangled bun. He combs his fingers through the knots, then ties it back for her again. He misses a few strands here and there, most of which he takes care to tuck behind her ears before his thumbs glide down the curve of her cheekbones. “Sometimes a guy just needs constant validation.”

“A formidable challenge, but I’m up for it.” She smiles when he interlaces their fingers. “Does this mean you’re going to suck it up and tell Robb, then?”

Jon laughs again, more forcefully this time. He squeezes her waist. “ _Oh_ , no. This just means that I’m going to freak out constantly, and you’re going to have to stay on my ass until I finally nut up and tell your brother that I’ve become your willing sex slave.”

Sansa blows those errant tendrils of hair out of her face. “Yeah, I’ll stay on your fine ass as much as you want —” at that, Jon’s hand falls to slap her own ass, bringing her closer to him when she arches in response “— but you’ve really got to work on your delivery.”

Jon tilts his face towards hers, and chucks her under the chin so that their lips brush when he speaks. “What, you think ‘willing sex slave’ might be overkill?”

“A bit, yeah.” Sansa presses a firm kiss to his answering pout. “We don’t have to worry about it yet, alright? It can just be you and me for a little while. We can figure the rest out later.”

They’d figured it out this far, hadn’t they? And they’d done most of that on a drunken, first-kiss whim that had left them both confused and crazy until they’d decided _fuck it, it’s worth a shot_. It can’t get much worse than that, and now they’re all the better for it.

“Yeah.” Jon grins, content to leave the worries for later.

In one smooth motion, he rolls Sansa beneath him and slides down her body, dragging his lips along her tingling skin as he goes, to nestle once more between her legs. “We’ll figure it out. In the meantime, though…”

He opens his mouth against her inner thigh and sucks slowly and upwards, mapping his tongue along her cocoa-butter skin as he ascends towards the tang of her cunt. Sansa’s muscles tense anew, and Jon runs soothing hands over her legs, up and down, up and down…

He tickles behind her knee and her thighs clamp over his ears, making him half-chuckle, half-groan as he grins against her mound and teases, “Let’s see if I can’t put that vibrator of yours out of work for good.”


	6. don’t you tiptoe

“They think they’re so clever.”

Arya, who’s much more interested in what’s taking her drink order so long — it’s only a Guinness, for fuck’s sake — hardly spares Margaery a glance, although she does grace her with a response.

“Eh?”

“Them.” Margaery gestures with her cosmopolitan so wildly that it nearly spills, and gives no actual indication of whom she’s speaking.

“I don’t — oh,” Arya says upon a quick look over her shoulder. Margaery’s directions are shit, but Arya can put two-and-two together without them. “That. Well, it was only a matter of time. Dunno what you’re so pissy about.”

“I’m not _pissy_ ,” Margaery argues with an imperious sniff. “I’m just insulted that Sansa apparently thinks I’m stupid. She’s been so evasive. She told me she hadn’t really spoken to Jon since _the incident_ , and yet there they are, flirting and making fuck-me eyes at each other in front of everyone like it’s mating season.”

“Well it is _spring_.”

Margaery’s sharp eyes cut a glare her way, but Arya shrugs it off. The bartender’s returned with her Guinness, finally. She takes a hearty pull of it, but lingers over the pint to give herself time to observe her sister at the other end of the pub.

She expects that Margaery will continue to air her grievances but, in fact, Margaery is studying the scene across the way as closely as she.

To the untrained eye, neither of them supposes that Sansa and Jon appear especially cozy. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, really, the way Jon leans oh-so-casually alongside Sansa’s seat. But then, neither woman would consider their eyes to be _untrained_ , either.

Both Arya and Margaery had been well-aware of their friends’ burgeoning attraction nearly since its inception — Margaery because Sansa had told her, Arya because Jon had admitted it when she called him out, and the pair of them had been swapping gossip since Sansa had moved into Jon’s place eight-odd months ago.

They had a pool going regarding how long it would take before Sansa and Jon got together, although the specifics of the bet changed all the time: Who would break first, when they’d kiss, when they’d fuck, and — most recently, since it was obvious all of the above had transpired one way or another — when they’d finally come clean to everyone else.

And, as of two weeks ago, Theon was in on it. He’d dropped the girls a group message that simply read: _I give it twelve hours, tops, but a month at least ‘til Robb finds out. You know what I’m talking about._

That was the same day — or rather, night — that Sansa had texted Margaery about the “something” that happened with Jon. Margaery was astute enough to recall that all of this had occurred the day Sansa’s vibrator arrived in the mail, so she imagines that has something to do with all of it, too.

 _It’s all coming together_ , Margaery and Arya think. They share a meaningful look when they catch Jon’s hand slipping not-so-inconspicuously across Sansa’s lower back, and clink their glasses in a toast to a job well done. Not that they necessarily did anything, but it looks as though they were right all along, and that’s reason enough to cheers.

Their celebration does not go unnoticed by the objects of their scrutiny.

“They’re staring at us,” Jon mutters in Sansa’s ear, as if he’s afraid his voice will carry over the music and across the pub.

“Who?” Sansa sits a little straighter in her seat. Jon’s hand at her back presses gently, warning her not to be too obvious.

“Arya and Margaery.”

“Oh.” Sansa deflates, her interest dissolved, and returns to her drink. “That’s nothing. Margaery already knew almost everything on my end, you said Arya knew some of it on yours, so I’m sure they’ve talked about it.”

Jon doesn’t know how anyone could be sure of something like that. As far as he’s concerned, he and Sansa had done a bang-up job of sneaking around the past couple of weeks. Of course, sneaking around’s made all the easier when you live together, but regardless they haven’t given anyone — namely, Robb — reason to believe that it’s not business as usual between them.

It’s anything but, although in retrospect Jon thinks they all should have seen this coming. Even he should have seen it coming.

After his minor meltdown in the kitchen when he’d caved and kissed Sansa like he’d wanted to for longer than even he knew, Jon had spent the following half-hour obsessing over it — why he did it, what to do now, what it meant. And, ultimately, he found the answers to be much more simple than the way he’d been complicating them: He kissed her because he wanted to, he had to tell her that, and how she responded would tell him, in turn, what it meant from there.

It was perhaps a stroke of luck that Jon happened to barge in on Sansa on the verge of orgasm, but he thinks they would have wound up here in any case.

Although… Well, suffice it to say that Jon isn’t fretting over his unintentional federal offense anymore. That vibrator was a godsend.

There was still the matter of letting everyone in on the secret, though. That’s been the most difficult part of segueing from roommates-to-relationship. Theon, Arya, and Margaery might know a little something, but Robb remains in the dark, and that’s been the problem from the beginning — that Robb didn’t know, and Jon doesn’t know how he’ll react when he inevitably finds out.

Because it is inevitable now, isn’t it? Jon takes a nervous gulp of his beer, and his other hand twists more tightly into the hem of Sansa’s shirt. If everyone else so much as sort-of knows, it’s only a matter of time and alcohol before someone lets too much slip while Robb’s in earshot. And considering that some of their friends have already been discussing it amongst themselves…

“You really think they’ve talked about it?” Jon asks, just to be sure.

Sansa shoots him a look that’s part incredulous, part endearing. “Girls tell each other everything.”

_“Why?”_

She shrugs. “We learn to share because we’re forced to mature, meanwhile men are allowed to mentally atrophy at the age of fourteen.”

Jon lets that sink in for a moment, frowning as he works through her words. “Are you calling me emotionally stunted?”

“Yup.”

Another beat of silence follows before Jon breaks it with a blink and a reply. “I can’t believe you’d call me emotionally stunted after I went down on you for two hours this afternoon.”

Before Sansa can so much as choke on her drink, Robb’s joined them at the end of the bar. She sputters on the rum still, which distracts Robb well enough so that Jon can shove his hands in his pockets and pretend he hadn’t been touching her. It’s far and away the last thing he wants to pretend, but Robb still doesn’t _know_ so Jon has to act like there’s nothing to know at all.

 _This can’t go on forever._ He frowns slightly, lost in the ever-present thought. _I don’t want it to._

While Jon suffers arguably the greatest (probable) existential crisis of his life, Robb is blind to his friend’s plight as his sister coughs rum and spittle into a napkin.

“You okay?” He thumps Sansa on the back, which only makes her cough more violently.

“Fine.” She waves him off. “Jon just… made me laugh, is all.”

Thanks to half a lifetime of friendship, Robb’s frown is almost identical to Jon’s. He cocks his head towards his friend, as if to be sure that he and Sansa are talking about the same person, and says matter-of-factly, “Jon isn’t funny.”

That’s enough to pull Jon from his anxieties. “Hey. I’m funny. Among plenty of other redeemable qualities, I’m funny, too.”

 _“Redeemable?”_ Robb quirks an eyebrow, a gesture that is far too similar to Sansa’s for Jon to be totally comfortable with it now. “Are you seeking forgiveness in the bottom of a glass? How very Hemingway of you.”

“Ugh.” Sansa wrinkles her nose into another _slurp!_ of piña colada. “I hate Hemingway.”

“Yes, I read your thesis, remember?”

“Get fucked.”

Robb looks pointedly at Jon, although for the love of god he doesn’t know why. But when Robb keeps talking, Jon very much wishes that he could have remained ignorant of his friend’s meaningful glance.

“Not to make this weird,” Robb says, so smoothly it’s clear that he doesn’t think it’s weird at all, “but when’s the last time you did that, Sansa? Like, gross, but Theon reckons we should try to set you up with someone.”

That gets another coughing fit — and a middle finger, too — out of Sansa. Jon shoots a scowl at Theon, who’s mingling with Arya and Margaery across the way, and proceeds to lift his gin-and-tonic in acknowledgement of Jon’s obvious annoyance with him.

“You’ve officially made it weird,” Sansa’s telling Robb when Jon turns his attention back to them. She points a threatening finger at her brother. “Do not try to get me laid, or I’ll tell mom and she’ll make you go back to church.”

“Oh, come on, San,” Robb implores. He tweaks her chin and she slaps his hand away again. “You’ve gotten your heart broken a few times too many, right? I’m never gonna be able to trust another man around you again, unless I pick him out for you.”

_Well if that’s not right on the fucking nose…_

Jon shoves a hand irritably through his hair. At this rate, he’s never going to tell Robb so much as what he’s had for breakfast — _ah, fuck_. Jon cringes at the thought. Even breakfast has become a taboo subject, as by now he’s spent a fair share of mornings between Sansa’s legs.

He’s in a silent sort of competition with the _Satisfyer_ , after all; they might make a fair team when it comes to getting Sansa off, but Jon would like to take the majority of credit, however slim the margin. In any case, he rather likes starting off their days with a bang, so to speak.

Like hell is he going to explain that to his girlfriend’s big brother, though.

 _The Dilemma_ , as Jon has chosen to call it in spite of Sansa’s protests — “You’re already making a big enough deal of the situation without giving it a _title_ , for god’s sake, Jon” — only worsens as the night wears on. He takes a couple rounds of shots with Arya in an attempt to drown himself in liquid courage, but it doesn’t make him courageous so much as _flirtatious_ , and god knows that’s only going to get him into trouble.

“Watch the hands,” Sansa warns him lowly and more than once. “Unless you want to explain to Robb what you’re trying to do to his baby sister on the dance floor.”

“Definitely not.” But Jon’s hands wander away from where Sansa had placed them modestly at her waist, and back down to her hips. His thigh slips between hers as he walks her backwards, further into the crush of patrons moving to the rhythm of the music. “I don’t think I’d mind explaining it to you, though.”

“That so?” Sansa dances along with his lead, cautiously so as not to attract attention from their nosy friends, out-of-sight as they may be. “Are you trying to dirty talk to me in public?”

“I resent that.” Jon nips at her ear. “I’m trying to _romance_ you, for fuck’s sake.”

Sansa laughs. The sound reverberates in Jon’s chest, even more so than the heavy bass pounding from the speakers. He doesn’t love the sound of anything so well as Sansa’s laugh — although he’d have to admit that the way she sighs his name in bed (or in the kitchen, on the couch, in the shower, up against the entryway wall) takes a close second.

“Is that what you’re going to tell Robb?” she wants to know. Her hands slide down his chest to clutch at his waist. “You’re _romancing_ his little sister?”

“Better than my initial plan to tell him I’m your willing sex slave, don’t you think?”

“Six-of-one, really, they’re both pretty terrible plans.”

She’s kidding with him, but she’s right nonetheless. Jon knows it, knows that he hasn’t got a leg to stand on in any of his poorly-formed plans to break the news to Robb. Plans that are so poorly-formed, in fact — and so reminiscent of his “plan” to pretend that Sansa was a completely non-sexual being ( _ha!_ ) — that they can hardly be called plans at all. But Jon figures he can afford to be generous with himself when he’s suffering a personal crisis on the daily.

Part of Jon realizes he’s making too big a deal of this; they’re all adults and should behave accordingly. But he’d spent ages winding himself up over the what-if’s, the implications of chasing after Sansa (which ultimately boiled down to a betrayal of his friendship with Robb, who would surely bury him alive, at best) that it was hard to shake those overreactions in favor of reason.

“Hey.” Sansa’s voice and a squeeze at his waist shake Jon of his reverie. “I know you’re driving yourself mad over this, but you don’t need to. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Jon grunts disbelievingly. “That sounds like a line.”

“Come on.” Sansa sweeps her hands back up his chest to smooth over his shoulders. She tugs him closer, so that her hips are grinding against his rather than his thigh to the beat of the music. “You’re so tense all the time. You’d think all the sex would calm you down some.”

“Oh, sure —” Jon leans in to murmur into her ear, his words cutting through the noise of the pub and coming loud and clear “— because a naked, sweaty, moaning Sansa Stark in my bed is exactly what I need to _calm down_.”

“Ha ha ha,” Sansa replies in a would-be unaffected way, if it weren’t for her hands snaking between them to toy with his belt buckle.

Jon arches immediately in response. But Sansa continues, breezy as ever, as if she wasn’t doing something so brazen as feeling him up in public, “Now _that’s_ a line. I was talking about the release of endorphins.”

“That’s right, baby,” Jon teases, but his voice is gruff and his pelvis rolls into her touch. “Talk biology to me.”

The colored lights that blink and flash across the dance floor catch on Sansa’s grin. Jon can feel her chest shake with laughter, too, but he’d prefer if she didn’t laugh at him while she’s got her hand dangerously close to his belt, and he tells her as much.

“Meet me in the bathroom, then,” she counters with a wicked gleam in her pretty blue eyes. “Five minutes.”

“Unsanitary.”

“Fine, then we can go upstairs and later you can explain to Robb why we both disappeared so early.”

_Like hell I will._

“I’ve seen the error of my ways,” Jon declares. “Bathroom, five minutes, provided I can wait that long.”

Sansa hums, half a breath away from a kiss that Jon sorely wants to risk in the middle of the crowd. But she’s not done teasing — torturing, more like — him yet, so Jon is left wanting when she whispers “Good boy,” and palms him quickly and just the once through his jeans.

With fewer than five minutes to spare — because he doesn’t intend to wait that long, however not-long-at-all it really is — Jon waits a full six seconds for Sansa to disappear before he’s maneuvering his way off the dance floor towards the bar.

He expects their friends are lost somewhere in the crowd, likely to resurface as soon as a song they don’t like comes on and they head back to the bar for another round. Since the DJ has yet to start spinning techno remixes when he’d do better to leave The Jackson Five well enough alone, as he’s wont to do, Jon assumes he’ll be safe until his less-than-five-minutes are up.

But as his sorry luck would have it, Theon appears at his elbow just as he’s downing a lemon drop shot.

“Oh, fuck off,” Jon says through a bite of his sugared lemon wedge. He sucks the tartness between his teeth to chase the vodka, then flicks the wedge at Theon in an attempt to wipe the smirk off his face.

“Eurgh. Dick.” Theon tosses the withered lemon into a nearby ashtray. “I’m not here to talk to you, anyway. Just wanna know if you’ve seen Sansa around? There’s this bloke from Robb’s office here I wanna introduce her to.”

Suddenly, the vodka that had been sitting so comfortably warm in Jon’s stomach is sloshing, hot and restless and just as agitated as he is at present. He has no idea who Theon is talking about, but he needs no further details to make his judgment call that “this bloke from Robb’s office” is obviously a douchebag and probably a lousy lay, too.

No matter how clearly, definitely no-good this guy is for Sansa, though, Jon reminds himself to keep his cool. Regardless of Theon’s pointed remarks and Jon’s near-admittance of his feelings a few weeks back, Theon still doesn’t _know_ , and it’s imperative that it stay that way. All it would take for Robb to find out that his best friend and little sister have shacked up together in every suggestion of the word, would be Jon’s confession to any of them — especially Robb’s live-in boyfriend, who apparently lives to encourage Jon’s regular spirals into despair.

So, cool as you please, Jon clears his throat and tells Theon, “Margaery wanted a smoke, so I think she might’ve gone out back with her. Oh, also, though —” Jon snaps his fingers, as if he’s just remembered something “— Sansa mentioned that she has zero desire, ever, to meet any guys in a romantic or casual sex context ever again. I mean, she’s just not into it. She’s, you know, she’s living footloose and fancy-free, and she wants to keep it that way, so…”

He coughs and clears his throat again. “No more blokes.”

_Smooth one, asshole. So much for keeping my cool._

Jon mutters a mention of the restroom, and ducks away before Theon can finish cracking another smirk.

There are two unmarked bathrooms at the back of the bar, down a short corridor that also boasts an exit to the patio. Jon tries his luck at one of the bathrooms, and is pleased with the powers of chance when Sansa peeks out the door and, upon seeing him, pulls him within by his shirtfront.

The door’s barely banged shut behind them before Sansa has Jon pushed up against it.

_Oh, fuck yes._

“Four and a half minutes,” she tells him. She flicks the lock. “You almost made it.”

“Would’ve been more like three and a half, but Theon took his sweet time pissing me off.”

“Aw.” Sansa pouts, but her trembling bottom lip betrays a smile. She’s laughing at him again; Jon can’t decide if that humiliates him or turns him on. “Poor baby. What’d he do?”

“He’s trying to set you up.” Jon catches her drifting hands with his own. He uses his grip on her as leverage to walk her backwards until she hits the sink, and he urges her up so she’s sitting atop it. He settles between her legs and leans in to start working his mouth up her neck. “Some asshole Robb works with.”

Sansa drags her foot up his calf to his thigh to his hip, where she stops to wrap her leg around him, all the better to encourage the slow rotation he’s already begun against her. “So you know this asshole, I take it?”

“Nope.” Jon unclasps the snap of her little denim shorts before trailing his hands down the smooth length of her legs. “I just know he’s an asshole. God damn, your skin is soft…”

“Got my legs waxed.”

 _“Hmmm.”_ Jon sighs deep and appreciatively. He tugs at the neckline of her low-cut shirt to bring it even lower, so that he can suck a mark between her breasts where no one else will see. “Anyway, I might have gone a bit neanderthal and told Theon you were quitting relationships cold turkey. Said you weren’t in the market for a new boyfriend ever again.

“So —” Jon pauses to swirl his tongue around her nipple, over the thin lace of her bra, and he lets out a satisfied _hmph!_ when she twines her fingers tightly through his hair “— he might think there’s something going on.”

Only a handful of minutes ago, this possibility had shaken Jon so thoroughly that it had the potential to toss up the drinks he’d had tonight. But it’s hard to worry about anything now, when he’s locked in a bathroom with Sansa and he’s got his face in her tits.

(This might be as opportune a moment as any to say _hakuna matata_ , but Jon suspects that Sansa won’t be impressed should he attempt to seduce her via children’s film quotes, so he refrains.)

“You _are_ a neanderthal,” Sansa agrees, but she’s shoving her hands in his pants so Jon thinks she’s probably into it.

He’s not going to fight her on it, in any case, and certainly not when she wraps a hand around his hardening dick and strokes him with agonizingly slow, delicious pressure. Instead, he nods emphatically, all the while kissing along her jaw towards her mouth.

“Mhmm, sweetheart, I’m whatever you say,” he complies, and slips his tongue between her cherry ChapStick lips.

She tastes of rum and pineapple and coconut, sharp and sweet and sure to linger. Jon whines pitifully into her mouth.

Even as it riles him up, kissing Sansa is the sweetest relief, a reminder that eventually Robb’s going to find out and probably try to duel him or something, but Sansa’s lips against his own — usually soft, sometimes a touch dry, always pliant and seeking and tinged with some flavor he can never get enough of — make his premature but impending death totally worth it.

“Fuck me, I love you,” Jon gasps harshly into her mouth. He pushes his hands into her hair and changes the angle of the kiss, taking it deeper and more desperately, just the way he wants to take her, right here on the bathroom sink. Except…

“Oh, shit —”

He catches Sansa’s hand, halting her just as she’s picking up a steady pace around his cock. “I don’t have a condom.”

“That’s alright, I still love you.” Her swollen lips curve into a grin. She tugs at his jeans so that they fall to his mid-thigh but, recognizing that spark of mischief in her eye and knowing her intention, Jon stops her again before she can slide off the countertop.

He shakes his head at her puzzled look. “Nuh-uh. Just keep touching me. You can go down on me when we’re upstairs later, you know, somewhere that’s not a public restroom’s floor.”

“You don’t want me to get dirty for you?” A hint of genuine curiosity hovers behind the joke.

“Baby —” he chuckles darkly as he rubs her cunt through her unsnapped shorts “— get as dirty with me as you want, I just don’t want you to need a tetanus shot.”

“Mmmm…” Sansa keens into his touch and resumes her own. Her palm sweeps over the head of his cock before she envelops him in her grip. “Dramatic.”

“God, you’re such an asshole,” Jon half-laughs, half-groans as Sansa’s thumb massages circles into his cock while her hand pumps up and down. He buries his face in her neck. “Holy shit —”

He bucks into her hand, restless and wanting her. Sansa tongues at the hollow of his throat and murmurs, soft and hot into his skin, “You sure you don’t want me to suck your cock, baby? Don’t wanna fuck my mouth on this dirty bathroom floor?”

“Fuck.” Jon shoves his hand into her shorts, plunging one finger, then two, inside of her, pulling a moan from her filthy mouth. “I’ll tell you what I want, sweetheart, I wanna take you upstairs, I wanna push you up against the door and get on my knees for you.”

He cuts off on another groan when, abruptly, Sansa pulls her hand off his dick. She holds his gaze as she licks from her palm all the way up to her fingertips, then takes him in her nimble, now-damp grip again.

“ _Fuck_ , I want you to ride my face,” Jon growls. He curls his fingers inside of her and thumbs at her clit. “I love going down on you, baby, love eating this pussy —” his blunt tumbnail pinches her mound and Sansa yelps and shudders, pupils blown wide “— so fucking hot, sweetheart, I could get off with my face buried in your cunt…”

A thought occurs to him then, sudden and unbidden, that it just as easily could have been someone else with her in this bathroom. If he’d never done anything, never said anything, if he’d gone on with his head up his ass, Sansa would have found someone else. If it wasn’t Theon trying to set her up tonight, there were more friends, more nights, more possibilities for Jon to lose his shot with her for good. And tonight, it might have only been Sansa and her vibrator for company.

Jon wants her to know — _needs_ her to know, amidst his nerves and confusion and stubborn streak — that he can be better than that for her.

“Remember that, baby.” His free hand tangles in her hair, baring her throat for him to kiss and nip and mark. “Remember how much I want you, all the time. You don’t need batteries for me, and you don’t need anybody else, either.”

“I don’t want anybody else.” Sansa halts his wandering mouth with her own, quick and reassuring. “For god’s sake, Jon, I’ve wanted you since I was sixteen, this is all I need.”

His answering grin is devilish and dorky in equal measure. He rubs at her more insistently, just as she’s doing to him, and even still he manages to tease her through ragged breaths, “Handjobs in the bathroom, that’s all you need?”

“Oh my god, I hate you,” she says on a broken moan, half a laugh, as her hips arch up up _up_ —

When her cunt clenches around his thrusting, curling fingers, when her walls pulse around his touch, when Sansa’s free hand yanks at his curls and she sighs his name, Jon bucks into her hand — once, twice, three more times before he’s meeting her release with his own. He bites down hard on her shoulder and sucks at her skin, groaning into the slope of her neck, as his cock throbs and he gets come all over her little denim shorts.

They sit slumped together, legs splayed and arms wrapped loosely around the other, breathing heavily. Jon kisses her cheek before be straightens, and he slips his hand from between her legs to lick his fingers clean.

 _“Mmph.”_ He pops them from his mouth and flicks his tongue over his lips, chasing the taste they left behind. “That’s gonna get me hard all over again.”

Sansa leans her head back against the mirror, eyes closed and chest hitching as her breath evens out. Jon stares, braces his hands on the sink, and leans in to press slow, open-mouthed kisses across the exposed lace of her bra.

“Keep doing that,” Sansa says warningly, “and I’m gonna get on this floor for you whether you like it or not. You can spot the copay for my tetanus shot.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” Jon chuckles, prompting Sansa to open her eyes just to glare at him. He slips his thumb past his lips and smirks. “I can still taste you. Think it’s still too early to head up? I wanna go down on you. You can do me after.”

“It’s a wonder you can function when you’ve got my cat on the brain all the time.”

“I know, I’m fuckin’ obsessed with it.”

Jon drops one more kiss to her lips, practically purring when she nibbles on his bottom lip, before he grabs a few paper towels to clean her up. No way are they going to be able to explain away the come stains on her shorts, and god knows it’s not going to go unnoticed by their friends.

Hell, Jon would still be wiping down Sansa’s jeans with wet paper towels even if everyone knew they were fucking. Even if Robb was cool with it, who wants to see the evidence of his best friend’s perversions unleashed upon his little sister? Robb would kill him and then bring him back to life just to kill him again.

That’s illogical, but Jon has been thoroughly distracted from logical thought when he decides to lather Sansa’s thighs in more hot kisses, lips parted in a promise of what’s to come just as soon as he gets her well and truly alone tonight.

Once he lets her hop off the sink, Sansa gives her reflection a once-over, then cuts her gaze to Jon to do the same.

“We definitely look like we’ve been fucking.”

“Give it five minutes.” Jon winks, then takes her by the waist as they head for the bathroom door, catching her lips with his in between words as they go. “We’ll pay our tabs, make excuses, then we can go upstairs and I’ll fuck you for real.”

“Oh, _swoon_.”

Sansa giggles as she unlatches the lock and Jon kisses her more firmly, lips clinging as they stumble out the bathroom door without a thought. Too caught up in the afterglow, in the renewed anticipation, in each other…

The door opens with an exuberant _bang!_ and Jon pushes Sansa up against the doorframe, not quite finished with her yet. His hand slips down to give her ass a smack, mouths still brushing as he grins and prepares to say another dirty something to tease her, when —

One sudden, short flash of light illuminates the dim corridor, accompanied by the telltale sound of a shutter and a long, low wolf-whistle.

“Well, well, fuckin’ _well_.”

For a split-second, Sansa and Jon freeze, staring at each other. Rumpled clothes, mussed hair, flushed skin smudged with purple bruises, definitely looking like they’ve been fucking or something just as damnable, and now…

“This is actually not a bad shot of you guys,” Theon says conversationally from where he’s leaning against the opposite wall. He’s studying the picture he’d just taken of them on his phone. “Post-coital and you’re still photogenic as fuck, meanwhile I’ve got two flattering angles that took me years to perfect. What bullshit.”

“Theon…” But Jon’s voice falters as soon as he begins. He even _sounds_ like he’d been fucking Sansa, all hoarse and rough and out-of-breath.

“Photogenic, but not at all subtle.” Theon sighs in a long-suffering sort of way, slightly disappointed in their complete lack of panache. “All the better for me, though. Margaery owes me twenty now, and Arya…”

He does the math, then cackles. “ _Fifty_. Oh, man, she’s gonna be pissed.

“But you know what’s even better?” Theon taps his phone against his cat-that-caught-the-canary grin while Sansa and Jon can do nothing but stare at him, a litany of _oh-what-the-fuck_ running on a loop through both their minds. “Better than the easiest seventy I’ve ever made in my pocket, are life’s priceless moments. Like the look on Robb’s face when I show him photographic evidence of what I’ve been telling him for weeks. That, and the fact that he was so sure of himself that he bet me two hundred I was wrong, so —”

“Not one of ‘life’s _priceless_ moments’ so much, then, is it?” Sansa finishes for him.

Jon can’t tell if she’s about to laugh or cry or perhaps both, but he’s pretty sure he’s having an out-of-body experience from which he hopes never to return. Robb’s going to kill him, anyway; might as well get a jump on things.

“Right you are, dollface.” Theon pushes himself off the wall, and slips his phone back into his pocket. “Well, kids, it’s been a slice, but I’ve gotta go collect. And I’ll let Robb’s coworker know you’re unavailable, after all, Lady Sansa,” he adds, then shakes his head at Jon. “Honestly, dipshit, make it more obvious next time, eh?”

And with that, Theon tips an imaginary hat in their direction and heads down the hall, belting the chorus to “She Works Hard for the Money” horribly out-of-tune as he departs.

“Well.” Sansa gnaws at her thumbnail. “Shit.”

“Yeah, sounds about right.”

Jon takes one long, steadying breath. He’d known this was inevitable, although he had hoped to avoid it awhile longer, and preferably without any impromptu snapshots. He knows, without a doubt, that his hand had been groping Sansa’s ass in that picture, which had felt incredible at the time but now he thinks he should have reined in his thirst for goddamn _once_.

But then he and Sansa share a look, and he just wants to grab her ass all over again.

“So,” Sansa says, breaking the tension, “while I stand by the fact that you’re overthinking this whole thing, I don’t think Robb’s going to be thrilled to find out about this via publicly indecent photo. So. I say we’ve got about roughly two minutes before it hits the fan.”

Her expression turns to one of appraisal. “How well do you work under pressure?”

“Uh —” Jon can’t help but choke out a laugh, and he wonders if he’s on the verge of a panic attack “— I don’t.”

“That’s what I thought.” Sansa seems to consider something for a moment, then she cracks a nervous smile. “Wanna make a run for it?”

“Oh, god, yes.”

Jon laughs again, tremulous and wracked with nerves, as they break into a sprint through the back door.

He hasn’t had so much as a second to formulate another half-assed and wholly useless plan to appease Robb. But, as he catches Sansa’s hand in his as they tear down the street with no destination in mind, Jon thinks that — much like everything else between them — they’ll figure it out along the way.


	7. confetti, i’m ready, i need it every night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: well here we are, at the end several days before i meant to have this all posted. ah, well. keep givin’ me love and i won’t regret my complete lack of chill. thanks for all the support in this whirlwind two days! (incidentally, i *will* be coming back to reply to comments; i’ve just been having a rough go of things lately so i haven’t been especially chatty or anything)
> 
> ps there’s an explicit game of thrones reference in this, a game of thrones fic, and idec bc it’s hilarious

**ROBB** : Jon pick up your goddamn phone

 **ROBB** : DUDE you’ve been MIA for like a week. Either pick up your phone or I’ll go Liam Neeson on your sorry ass. It’s going to be a lot less tough-guy impressive without his signature accent, but I’ll have you know that I’ve got the pitch of a fledgling Broadway star.

 **ROBB** : You really wanna get your ass handed to you by a guy who once played understudy to Jack in a high school production of Into the Woods??

 **ROBB** : Remember that, btw? Why the fuck was I the UNDERSTUDY? It haunts me to this day

 **ROBB** : Jon!!!!! You can’t ABSCOND WITH MY SISTER (seriously when the FUCK did you two even happen?? How?? Nobody knows!!) and then IGNORE ME. Pick up your phone or it’s fisticuffs at dawn.

 **JON** : We’re Sorry. The Number You Are Trying To Reach Has Been Dosconnected.

 **ROBB** : Nice try, asshole. What kind of automated message has typos?? Turn your autocorrect back on, you pretentious bitch

 **JON** : We’re Sorry. The Number You Are Trying To Reach Has Been ***DISCONNECTED***

 **ROBB** : I know your mother raised you better than this

 

* * *

 

 **ARYA** : robb is having a COW

 **SANSA** : In my defense, I really didn’t think he’d care this much.

 **ARYA** : you and jon have been fucking on the DL for what, weeks now? and robb had no idea meanwhile the rest of us called it. i think he just feels stupid

 **ARYA** : he’s been saying things like ‘et tu, brute?’ and calling us saboteurs all week, tho. i snagged his phone the other day and he’d changed all our contact names to infamous traitors

 **ARYA** : benedict arnold, judas iscariot, BRUTUS (which i’m pretty sure is capitalized bc he doesn’t know brutus’ last name?), lindsey buckingham, and petyr baelish. that last one is a little too far, imo

 **SANSA** : So in this scenario, our usually even-tempered, mild-mannered brother self-identifies as:

• America  
• Jesus  
• Julius Caesar  
• Stevie Nicks  
• and a healthy percentage of characters on Game of Thrones?

 **ARYA** : clearly he’s suffering some sort of psychotic break

 **SANSA** : Well he is JESUS, apparently, so imagine the sort of stress he must be under.

 **ARYA** : for sure. theon finds the whole thing incredibly erotic, apparently

 **SANSA** : Natch.

 **ARYA** : so where’d you guys end up? margaery said she’s getting your mail ‘til you’re back

 **SANSA** : Remember the beach house Jon’s mum flipped a few summers ago? I assume you do, since the boys were used as free labor and they whined constantly about their aching joints, even though they were all of twenty-four at the time. Anyway, Lyanna wound up keeping the house. She rents it out to tourists, but it’s freed up for a couple more weeks.

 **ARYA** : SUMMER LOVIN’ HAD ME A BLAST

 **ARYA** : you slut

 **SANSA** : Ha! Jon wishes. He keeps trying to fuck me on top of all the decorative pillows.

 **ARYA** : i feel obligated to tell you that i’ve screenshot that for potential blackmail purposes

 **SANSA** : Fair enough.

 

* * *

 

**JON SNOW is In a Relationship with SANSA STARK**

_26 likes  
30 comments_

**Theon Greyjoy** : the most lucrative love story since titanic

 **Arya Stark** : speak for yourself. smug prick

 **Theon Greyjoy** : **@Arya Stark** hey, i worked hard for the money! so hard for it, honey!

 **Margaery Tyrell** : At last THE THIRST has been quenched!! Praise be!  
P.S. Pretty sure nobody worked HARDer for it than Jon did, ayyyyyyy

 **Jon Snow** : **@Margaery Tyrell** PLEASE don’t tarnish the single best status update of my life with vague dick jokes

 **Margaery Tyrell** : How about specific dick jokes?

 **Jon Snow** : That’s WORSE

 **Theon Greyjoy** : **@Robb Stark** tooooold yooooouuu

 **Robb Stark** : EXCUSEZ-MOI?? I’ve been texting you for days to no avail, and now you show up on Facebook to announce your elopement??? Without so much as asking my blessing??

 **Sansa Stark** : We didn’t elope!

 **Robb Stark** : First of all, a romantic rendezvous on the beach sounds like an elopement to me

 **Jon Snow** : ...is there a ‘second of all,’ or…?

 **Robb Stark** : Yeah, second of all, fuck you

 **Arya Stark** : oh right **@Sansa** i told robb where you guys went. my bad but he bribed me with a twenty and i had to recoup my losses after i gave theon all my fuckin money

 **Sansa Stark** : This is a disaster.

 **Jon Snow** : Babe I told you it would be

 **Robb Stark** : ‘BABE’???? She has a NAME, you twat!!

 **Jon Snow** : Considering the hour’s drive between us, I feel safe enough to say this to you, **@Robb** … I KNOW she has a name, as I’ve spent a good deal of my time groaning it in a state of sexual ecstasy

 **Robb Stark** : FISTICUFFS AT DAWN  
fuckin perv

 **Sansa Stark** : This has spiraled wildly out of control.

 **Margaery Tyrell** : Well look at it this way, **@Sansa** even if your beloved Jon falls in the impending battle for your virtue or whatever, at least you’ll still have the vibrator that started it all to remember him by

 **Robb Stark** : WHAT

 **Arya Stark** : WHAT

 **Theon Greyjoy** : i feel so blessed rn

 **Jon Snow** : Cue the funeral march.  
**@Sansa** It was an honor to have served as your personal clit stimulator. Remember me fondly.

 **Sansa Stark** : Thanks, all. Now Jon is laying face-down in the middle of the floor, groaning like a dying animal.  
It’s very attractive.

 **Arya Stark** : uh who gives a shit? tell us about the vibrator

 **Robb Stark** : NO  
DON’T

 **Sansa Stark** : LOGGING OFF NOW  
I have a distraught boyfriend to tend to.

 **Margaery Tyrell** : ‘tend to’ aka  
Don’t you know how sweet and wonderful life can be!  
I’m askin’ you baaaaayby  
to get it on with meeee…


End file.
